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PHILOSOPHIC 
AND   ANALYTIC   STUDIES 

VOLUME  IV 


DEATH  OF  ETIENNE  AND   GABRIELLE 


These  words  discharged  into  the  hearts  of  the  two 
children  the  terror  with  which  they  were  laden.  As 
Etienne  sazv  his  father's  great  hand,  armed  with 
a  sword,  raised  over  Gabrielle's  head,  he  died,  and 
Gabrielle  fell  dead  while  trying  to  retain  him. 


THE    NOVELS 


OF 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC 


NOW    FOR    THE    FIRST   TIME 
COMPLETELY    TRANSLATED    INTO    ENGLISH 


GAMBARA 


BY  THOS.  H.  WALLS 


MASSIMILLA  DONI 
THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 


BY  G.  BURNHAM   IVES 


WITH    FIVE    ETCHINGS    BY    EUGENE    DECISY,     AFTER 
PAINTINGS    BY    PIERRE   VIDAL 


IN  ONE  VOLUME 


PRINTED  ONLY  FOR  SUBSCRIBERS  BY 

GEORGE  BARRIE   &   SON,  PHILADELPHIA 


COPYRIGHT,  1899,  BY   GEORGE  BARRIE   &   SON 


•,.  r 


5 

C5 

o 


GAMBARA 


189973 


TO  MONSIEUR  LE  M4RQUIS  DE  BELLOY 

It  was  by  the  fireside,  in  a  mysterious,  splendid 
retreat  which  no  longer  exists,  but  which  will  live  in 
our  memory,  and  whence  our  eyes  discovered  Paris, 
from  the  hills  of  Bellevue  to  those  of  Belleville,  from 
Montmartre  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  de  1'Etoile,  on  a 
morning  bedewed  with  tea,  and  amid  the  thousand 
thoughts  that  arise  and  die  out  like  rockets  in  your 
sparkling  conversation,  that  you,  prodigal  of  wit, 
threw  under  my  pen  that  personage  worthy  of  Hoff- 
man, that  bearer  of  unknown  treasures,  that  pilgrim 
seated  at  the  gate  of  Paradise,  having  ears  to  listen 
to  the  songs  of  the  angels,  and  having  no  longer  a 
tongue  to  repeat  them,  touching  ivory  keys  with 
fingers  bruised  by  the  contractions  of  divine  inspira- 
tion, and  believing  that  he  was  expressing  the  music 
of  Heaven  to  a  bewildered  audience.  You  have 
created  GAMBARA,  I  have  only  clothed  him.  Let 
me  render  unto  Caesar  what  belongs  to  Caesar,  re- 
gretting that  you  did  not  seize  the  pen  at  an  epoch 
when  noblemen  ought  to  use  it  as  well  as  their 
sword,  in  order  to  save  their  country.  You  may  be 
forgetful  of  self,  but  you  owe  your  talents  to  us. 


New-Year's  Day  of  1831  was  emptying  its  cornu- 
copias of  sugar-plums,  four  o'clock  was  striking, 
crowds  were  gathering  in  the  Palais  Royal,  and  the 
restaurants  were  rapidly  filling  up.  A  carriage  at 
this  moment  drew  up  before  the  steps,  a  young  man 
of  proud  mien  alighted  therefrom,  evidently  a  for- 
eigner, for  otherwise  he  would  have  had  neither 
the  outrider  with  the  aristocratic  plumes,  nor  the 
armorial  bearings  still  sought  after  by  the  heroes  of 
July. 

The  stranger  entered  the  Palais  Royal,  and  fol- 
lowed the  crowd  through  the  galleries,  without 
surprise  at  the  slow  progress  to  which  he  was  con- 
demned by  the  concourse  of  the  curious;  he  seemed 
accustomed  to  the  noble  gait  which  has  been  iron- 
ically termed  "the  ambassador's  step;"  but  his 
dignity  smacked  a  little  of  the  theatre.  Although 
his  face  was  grave  and  handsome,  his  hat,  whence 
escaped  a  cluster  of  black  curls,  inclined  rather  too 
much  over  the  right  ear,  contradicting  his  gravity 
and  giving  to  the  wearer  a  certain  sinister  air.  His 
distracted  and  half-closed  eyes  glanced  disdainfully 
upon  the  crowd. 

"  There  is  a  very  handsome  young  man,"  ex- 
claimed a  grisette,  stepping  aside  to  allow  him  to 
pass. 

(5) 


6  GAMBARA 

"And  he  knows  it  too  well !  "  loudly  replied  her 
companion,  who  was  herself  ugly. 

After  a  walk  through  the  gallery,  the  young  man 
looked  alternately  at  the  sky  and  at  his  watch,  and, 
with  a  gesture  of  impatience,  entered  a  smoking 
apartment,  lighted  a  cigar,  and,  taking  his  position 
before  a  mirror,  glanced  at  his  costume,  whose  rich- 
ness exceeded  rather  what  is  permitted  in  France 
by  the  laws  of  good  taste.  He  rearranged  his  collar 
and  black  velvet  vest,  which  was  traversed,  in  sev- 
eral directions,  by  one  of  those  massive  gold  chains 
which  are  manufactured  at  Genoa;  then,  having 
thrown,  by  a  single  movement,  his  velvet-lined 
cloak  over  his  left  shoulder,  disposing  it  with  grace, 
he  resumed  his  walk,  not  at  all  disconcerted  by  the 
bourgeois  glances  that  he  encountered.  As  soon  as 
the  shops  began  to  be  lighted,  and  the  night  to 
appear  sufficiently  dark,  he  bent  his  steps  toward 
the  Place  du  Palais  Royal,  like  a  man  who  feared  to 
be  recognized;  for  he  kept  by  the  side  of  the  en- 
closure as  far  as  the  fountain,  in  order  to  reach, 
under  shelter  of  the  hackney-coaches,  the  entrance 
of  Rue  Froidmanteau,  an  obscure,  dirty,  and  low 
thoroughfare,  a  sort  of  sewer,  which  the  police  tol- 
erate, near  the  salubrious  Palais  Royal,  just  as  an 
Italian  major-domo  would  allow  a  negligent  valet  to 
heap,  in  a  corner  of  the  staircase,  the  sweepings  of 
the  apartment. 

The  young  man  hesitated,  reminding  one  of  a 
young  bourgeoise  in  Sunday  attire,  stretching  out 
her  neck  before  a  stream  swollen  by  a  shower.  The 


GAMBARA  7 

hour,  however,  was  well  chosen  for  satisfying  any 
shameful  fancy.  Earlier,  there  was  a  danger  of  sur- 
prise; later,  a  risk  of  being  preceded.  To  be  invited 
by  a  glance  which  encourages  without  provocation, 
to  have  followed  for  an  hour,  perhaps  for  a  day,  a 
young  and  beautiful  woman,  to  have  divined  her 
thoughts,  and  to  have  put  a  thousand  favorable  in- 
terpretations upon  her  frivolity,  to  have  recovered 
faith  in  sudden  and  irresistible  sympathy,  to  have 
imagined,  beneath  the  fire  of  transient  emotion,  an 
adventure  in  an  age  in  which  romances  are  written 
for  the  sole  reason  that  they  no  longer  occur,  to  have 
dreamed  of  balconies,  guitars,  stratagems,  bolts,  and 
to  be  draped  with  the  mantle  of  Almaviva,  after 
having  in  his  rhapsody  written  a  poem,  to  stop  at 
the  door  of  a  disreputable  house;  and  then,  for  the 
whole  denouement,  to  perceive  in  the  reserve  of  his 
Rosine  a  precaution  imposed  by  a  police  regula- 
tion,— is  it  not  a  deception  through  which  many  men 
have  passed  who  are  unwilling  to  acknowledge  it? 

The  most  natural  sentiments  are  those  which  we 
confess  with  the  greatest  repugnance,  and  conceit  is 
one  of  them.  When  the  lesson  ends  here,  the  Paris- 
ian either  profits  by  it  or  forgets  it,  and  the  evil  is 
not  serious;  but  it  was  not  to  be  thus  with  the 
stranger,  who  began  to  fear  that  his  Parisian  educa- 
tion might  cost  him  dear. 

This  pedestrian  was  a  noble  Milanese,  banished 
from  his  country,  where  certain  liberal  freaks  had 
rendered  him  a  suspect  to  the  Austrian  government. 

Comte  Andrea  Marcosini  was  received  in  Paris 


8  GAMBARA 

with  that  welcome,  truly  French  in  eagerness,  which 
an  amiable  disposition,  joined  to  a  sounding  title, 
a  handsome  exterior,  and  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  a  year,  is  sure  to  command  there.  For 
such  a  man,  exile  is  a  pleasure-jaunt;  his  property 
was  merely  sequestered,  and  he  was  informed  by 
his  friends,  that,  after  an  absence  of  two  years  at 
most,  he  might  safely  return  to  his  own  country. 
Having  written  a  dozen  sonnets  in  which  "  crudeli 
affanni"  was  made  to  rhyme  with  "  i  miei  tiranni," 
and,  from  his  own  purse,  maintained  the  unfortunate 
Italian  refugees,  Comte  Andrea,  who  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  a  poet,  believed  himself  released  from 
his  patriotic  ideas.  Since  his  arrival,  then,  he  had 
given  himself  up  without  reserve  to  the  pleasures  of 
all  kinds  which  Paris  offers  gratuitously  to  all  who 
are  rich  enough  to  purchase  them.  His  talents  and 
beauty  had  gained  him  much  success  among  women, 
whom  he  loved  collectively,  as  became  his  age,  but 
among  whom  he  had  not  yet  distinguished  anyone. 
Moreover,  that  taste  in  him  was  subordinated  to 
those  for  music  and  poetry,  which  he  had  cultivated 
from  childhood,  and  in  which  it  appeared  to  him  more 
difficult  and  more  glorious  to  succeed  than  in  gal- 
lantry, since  nature  had  spared  him  the  difficulties 
which  men  love  to  surmount. 

A  complex  man,  like  so  many  others,  he  was 
easily  seduced  by  the  allurements  of  luxury,  without 
which  he  could  not  have  lived,  and  he  adhered  tena- 
ciously to  the  social  distinctions  which  his  opinions 
rejected.  His  theories  of  artist,  thinker,  poet,  were 


GAMBARA  9 

frequently  in  contradiction  with  his  tastes,  with  his 
feelings,  with  his  habits  of  a  millionaire  gentleman. 
But  he  consoled  himself  with  respect  to  these  ab- 
surdities, recognizing  them  in  many  Parisians,  liberal 
by  interest,  aristocratic  by  nature.  It  .was,  then,  not 
without  a  strange  uneasiness  that  he  caught  him- 
self, on  December  31,  1830,  on  foot  in  the  midst  of  a 
Parisian  thaw,  tracking  the  steps  of  a  woman  whose 
costume  proclaimed  profound,  radical,  ancient,  con- 
firmed misery,  who  was  not  more  beautiful  than  so 
many  others  whom  he  saw  every  evening  at  the 
Bouffons,  at  the  Opera,  in  society,  and  certainly 
not  so  young  as  Madame  de  Manerville,  with  whom 
he  had  made  an  appointment  for  that  very  day,  and 
who,  perhaps,  was  still  awaiting  him.  But  there 
was  in  the  glance,  at  once  wild  and  tender,  deep  and 
rapid,  which  the  black  eyes  of  this  woman  stealthily 
darted  at  him,  so  much  sorrow,  and  so  much  smoth- 
ered delight!  She  had  blushed  with  so  much  fire, 
when,  upon  leaving  the  shop  in  which  she  had  re- 
mained a  quarter  of  an  hour,  her  eyes  had  so  luckily 
met  those  of  the  Milanese,  who  had  awaited  her 
within  a  few  steps!  Finally,  there  were  so  many 
buts  and  ifs,  that  the  count,  attacked  by  one  of  those 
furious  temptations  for  which  there  is  no  name  in 
any  language,  not  even  in  that  of  the  orgy,  gave 
himself  up  to  the  pursuit  of  this  woman,  hunting 
la  grisette  like  an  old  Parisian.  Pursuing  his  way, 
whether  following  or  preceding  this  woman,  he 
scanned  her  in  all  the  details  of  person  and  dress, 
in  order  to  dislodge  the  absurd,  insane  desire  which 


10  GAMBARA 

had  entrenched  itself  in  his  brain;  soon  he  found 
a  pleasure  in  this  review,  more  ardent  than  that 
which  he  had  tasted  the  preceding  evening  in  contem- 
plating, beneath  the  waves  of  a  perfumed  bath,  the 
irreproachable  outlines  of  a  beloved  person;  some- 
times, lowering  her  head,  the  unknown  one  threw 
upon  him  the  side-glance  of  a  goat  tied  close  to  the 
ground,  and,  finding  herself  continually  pursued,  she 
quickened  her  step  as  if  she  wished  to  escape.  Yet, 
whenever  a  block  of  vehicles  or  any  other  accident 
brought  Andrea  near  her,  the  nobleman  perceived 
her  lower  her  face  beneath  his  glance,  without  any 
expression  of  vexation  in  her  features.  These  sure 
signs  of  struggling  emotion  gave  the  final  spur  to 
the  disordered  dreams  that  were  running  away  with 
him;  and  he  galloped  as  far  as  Rue  Froidmanteau, 
into  which,  after  numerous  turns,  the  unknown  one 
suddenly  entered,  believing  that  she  had  concealed 
her  track  from  the  stranger,  who  was  much  surprised 
at  her  movements. 

It  was  night.  Two  women,  tattooed  with  rouge, 
who  were  drinking  black-currant  ratafee  upon  the 
counter  of  a  grocer,  saw  the  young  woman  and  called 
her.  The  unknown  one  stopped  upon  the  threshold  of 
the  door,  replied  in  a  few  words,  affably  expressed, 
to  the  cordial  compliment  which  was  addressed  to  her, 
and  resumed  her  journey.  Andrea,  who  followed 
her,  saw  her  disappear  in  one  of  the  darkest  alleys  of 
that  street,  whose  name  was  unknown  to  him.  The 
repulsive  aspect  of  the  house  into  which  the  heroine 
of  his  romance  had  just  entered  caused  him  a  feeling 


GAMBARA  1 1 

of  nausea.  Retreating  a  step  to  examine  the  locality, 
he  found  close  to  him  a  man  of  forbidding  features, 
whom  he  asked  for  information.  The  man  supported 
his  right  hand  upon  a  knotty  stick,  placed  his  left 
hand  upon  his  hip,  and  replied,  in  a  single  word: 

"Jester!" 

But  quizzing  the  Italian,  upon  whom  the  light  of  a 
street-lamp  fell,  his  countenance  assumed  a  wheed- 
ling expression. 

"Ah!  beg  pardon,  monsieur,"  he  continued  in  an 
entirely  changed  tone,  "there  is  also  a  restaurant,  a 
sort  of  table-d'h6te,  where  the  cooking  is  wretched, 
and  where  they  put  cheese  in  the  soup.  Perhaps 
the  gentleman  is  looking  for  that  cook-shop,  for  it's 
easy  to  see  by  his  costume  that  the  gentleman  is 
an  Italian;  the  Italians  are  very  fond  of  velvet  and 
cheese.  If  the  gentleman  wishes  I  should  direct 
him  to  a  better  restaurant,  I  have  an  aunt  a  few 
steps  from  here,  who  is  very  partial  to  foreigners." 

Andrea  raised  his  cloak  up  to  his  moustache,  and 
darted  out  of  the  street,  impelled  by  the  disgust 
which  this  impure  individual  caused  him,  whose 
dress  and  gestures  were  in  keeping  with  the  low 
house  into  which  the  unknown  one  had  just  entered. 
He  returned  with  delight  to  the  thousand  refinements 
of  his  apartment,  and  went  to  pass  the  evening  with 
the  Marquise  d'Espard  in  order  to  endeavor  to  wash 
out  the  stain  of  that  fancy  which  had  ruled  him  so 
tyrannically  during  a  part  of  the  day.  After  retiring 
to  rest,  however,  in  the  meditation  of  night,  his  day- 
dream returned,  but  clearer  and  more  vivid  than  the 


12  GAMBARA 

reality.  Again  the  unknown  one  passed  before  him, 
occasionally  in  crossing  the  gutters  she  again  re- 
vealed the  shapely  leg.  Her  hips  quivered  nervously 
at  each  of  her  steps.  Andrea  desired  to  speak  to  her 
again  and  dared  not,  he,  Marcosini,  a  noble  Milanese! 
Then  he  saw  her  entering  this  obscure  alley,  which 
had  deprived  him  of  her,  and  he  reproached  himself 
for  not  having  followed  her. 

"For,  finally,"  he  said  to  himself,  "if  she  were 
avoiding  me  and  wishing  me  to  lose  trace  of  her,  she 
loves  me.  With  women  of  this  sort  resistance  is  a 
proof  of  love.  Had  I  pushed  this  adventure  further, 
I  should  have  finished,  perhaps,  in  a  feeling  of  dis- 
gust, and  I  should  sleep  quietly." 

The  count  was  in  the  habit  of  analyzing  his  most 
ardent  feelings,  as  men  involuntarily  do  who  have 
as  much  intellect  as  heart,  and  he  was  astonished  to 
behold  again  the  unknown  one  of  Rue  Froidmanteau, 
not  in  the  ideal  pomp  of  visions,  but  in  the  bareness 
of  her  afflicting  realities.  And  yet,  if  his  fancy  had 
stripped  this  woman  of  the  garb  of  misery,  it  would 
have  spoiled  her  for  him;  for  he  wished  her,  he  de- 
sired her,  he  loved  her  with  her  soiled  stockings, 
with  her  worn  shoes,  with  her  rice-straw  hat.  He 
wished  for  her  even  in  that  house  into  which  he  had 
seen  her  enter. 

"Am  I  captured,  then,  by  vice?"  he  asked  himself 
in  alarm.  "  I  am  not  yet  so  far  gone,  I  am  twenty- 
three  years  of  age,  and  have  nothing  of  the  blase 
old  man." 

Even  the  energy  of  caprice,  of  which   he  felt 


GAMBARA  13 

himself  the  sport,  somewhat  reassured  him.  This 
singular  struggle,  this  reflection,  and  this  love  on 
the  wing  will  justly  surprise  some  persons  accus- 
tomed to  the  ways  of  Paris;  but  they  must  observe 
that  the  Comte  Andrea  Marcosini  was  not  a  French- 
man. 

Brought  up  by  two  abbes,  who,  according  to  the 
instructions  given  by  a  devout  father,  seldom  released 
him,  Andrea  had  not  fallen  in  love  with  a  cousin  at 
eleven  years  of  age,  nor  had  he  at  twelve  betrayed 
his  mother's  chambermaid;  he  had  not  frequented 
those  colleges  in  which  the  most  perfect  instruction 
is  not  that  which  the  State  sells.  Finally,  he  had 
dwelt  in  Paris  but  a  few  years;  he  was,  therefore, 
still  accessible  to  those  sudden  and  deep  impres- 
sions against  which  French  education  and  manners 
form  so  powerful  a  shield.  In  Southern  countries, 
great  passions  frequently  arise  at  a  glance.  A 
Gascon  gentleman,  who  tempered  much  sensibility 
with  much  reflection,  and  possessed  himself  of  a 
thousand  little  receipts  against  sudden  apoplexies  of 
his  mind  and  heart,  had  advised  the  count  to  sur- 
render himself  at  least  once  a  month  to  some  magis- 
tral orgy,  to  charm  away  those  storms  of  the  soul 
which,  without  such  precautions,  sometimes  burst 
inopportunely.  Andrea  remembered  the  advice. 

"  Well,"  thought  he,  "  I  will  begin  to-morrow, 
the  first  of  January." 

This  explained  why  Comte  Andrea  Marcosini 
manoeuvred  so  timidly  in  entering  Rue  Froidman- 
teau.  The  elegant  man  embarrassed  the  lover;  he 


14  GAMBARA 

hesitated  a  long  while,  but,  having  made  a  last  appeal 
to  his  courage,  the  lover  walked  with  a  sufficiently 
firm  step  to  the  house,  which  he  recognized  without 
difficulty.  There  he  paused  again.  Was  this  woman 
really  what  he  imagined?  Was  he  not  on  the  point 
of  taking  some  false  step?  Then  he  recalled  the 
Italian  table-d'hote,  and  hurried  to  seize  upon  a 
middle  course  which  should  serve  at  once  his  desire 
and  his  reluctance.  He  entered  for  dinner,  and 
glided  into  the  alley,  at  the  end  of  which  he  found, 
not  without  groping  a  long  while,  the  damp  and 
greasy  steps  of  a  staircase  which  a  great  Italian 
seigneur  was  to  take  for  a  ladder.  Attracted  toward 
the  first  story  by  a  small  lamp  placed  upon  the  floor, 
and  by  a  strong  kitchen  odor,  he  pushed  the  half- 
open  door,  and  saw  a  room  brown  with  dirt  and 
smoke,  in  which  a  Leonarde  was  trotting  about 
busily  occupied  in  dressing  a  table  for  about  twenty 
persons.  None  of  the  guests  had  yet  arrived.  After 
a  glance  thrown  upon  the  ill-lighted  room,  whose 
paper  was  falling  in  tatters,  the  nobleman  seated 
himself  near  a  stove  which  smoked  and  roared  in  a 
corner.  Led  by  the  noise  that  the  count  made  in 
entering  and  laying  down  his  cloak,  the  steward  ap- 
peared promptly.  Imagine  a  lean  cook,  dried-up,  of 
tall  stature,  with  a  generously  large,  coarse  nose,  and 
casting  around  him,  momentarily  and  with  feverish 
anxiety,  a  look  which  was  meant  to  express  pru- 
dence. On  beholding  Andrea,  whose  whole  attire 
proclaimed  great  ease,  the  Signor  Giardini  bowed  re- 
spectfully. The  count  manifested  a  desire  to  take 


GAM  BAR  A  1 5 

his  meals  habitually  in  company  with  some  country- 
men, and  to  pay  in  advance  for  a  certain  number  of 
tickets;  he  also  gave  to  the  conversation  a  famil- 
iar turn  in  order  to  arrive  promptly  at  his  purpose. 
Scarcely  had  he  mentioned  his  unknown  one,  when 
the  Signor  Giardini  made  a  grotesque  gesture  and 
looked  upon  his  guest  with  a  malicious  air,  allowing 
a  smile  to  wander  over  his  lips. 

"Basta!"  cried  he,  "  capisco!  Your  lordship  is  led 
here  by  two  appetites.  La  Signora  Gambara  will 
not  have  lost  her  time,  if  she  has  succeeded  in  in- 
teresting a  nobleman  as  generous  as  you  appear  to 
be.  In  a  few  words,  I  will  inform  you  of  all  we  know 
here  about  this  poor  woman,  truly  well  worthy  of 
pity.  The  husband  was  born,  I  believe,  at  Cremona, 
and  arrived  from  Germany;  he  wished  to  introduce 
new  music  and  new  instruments  among  the  Tedeschi! 
Isn't  it  a  pity?"  said  Giardini,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders. "//  Signor  Gambara,  who  believes  himself  a 
great  composer,  does  not  appear  to  me  to  be  strong 
in  other  matters.  A  worthy  man,  moreover,  and  full 
of  sense  and  wit,  sometimes  very  amiable,  especially 
when  he  has  drunk  a  few  glasses  of  wine, — a  rare 
case,  owing  to  his  profound  poverty, — he  occupies 
himself  night  and  day  in  composing  operas  and  imag- 
inary symphonies,  instead  of  trying  to  gain  his  living 
honestly.  His  poor  wife  is  compelled  to  work  for 
all  sorts  of  people,  even  for  the  lowest.  What  would 
you  have?  She  loves  her  husband  like  a  father, 
and  cherishes  him  like  a  child.  Many  young  fel- 
lows have  dined  at  my  house,  in  order  to  pay  their 


1 6  GAMBARA 

addresses  to  madame,  but  not  one  has  succeeded," 
said  he,  emphasizing  the  last  word.  "La  Signora 
Marianna  is  virtuous,  my  dear  monsieur,  too  virtuous 
for  her  misery.  Men  give  nothing  for  nothing  now- 
adays. Therefore  the  poor  woman  will  die  of  grief. 
Do  you  think  her  husband  recompenses  her  for  this 
devotion? — Pshaw!  the  gentleman  does  not  bestow 
upon  her  even  a  smile,  and  their  cooking  is  done 
at  the  bakehouse,  for  not  only  does  this  devil  of  a 
man  not  earn  a  penny,  but  he  also  spends  the  fruits 
of  his  wife's  labor  in  instruments,  which  he  shapes, 
lengthens,  shortens,  takes  to  pieces  and  puts  together 
again  until  they  can  only  produce  sounds  that  frighten 
off  the  cats;  then  he  is  satisfied.  And  yet  you  will 
see  in  him  the  most  amiable,  the  best  of  all  men,  and 
by  no  means  idle,  he  is  always  at  work.  How  shall 
I  describe  him?  He  is  a  madman,  and  unconscious 
of  his  condition.  I  have  seen  him,  while  filing  and 
forging  his  instruments,  eat  black  bread  with  an  ap- 
petite which  provoked  me  to  envy,  I,  monsieur,  who 
keep  the  best  table  in  Paris.  Yes,  Your  Excellency, 
in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  you  will  know 
what  kind  of  man  I  am.  I  have  introduced  into  the 
Italian  kitchen  refinements  which  will  surprise  you. 
Excellency,  I'm  a  Neapolitan,  that  is  to  say,  a  born 
cook.  But  what  good  is  instinct  without  science? 
Science!  1  have  passed  thirty  years  in  acquiring  it, 
and  see  what  it  has  brought  me  to.  My  history  is 
that  of  all  men  of  talent.  My  experiments  and  tests 
have  ruined  three  restaurants  established  succes- 
sively at  Naples,  Parma,  and  Rome.  Now  that  I  am 


GAMBARA  17 

reduced  to  the  necessity  of  making  a  trade  of  my 
art,  I  generally  obey  my  ruling  passion.  I  serve 
these  poor  refugees  with  some  of  my  choicest  stews. 
In  this  way  I  ruin  myself.  Folly,  you  say?  I  know 
it;  but  what  would  you?  Talent  runs  away  with  me, 
and  I  cannot  resist  preparing  a  dish  which  pleases 
me.  They  always  perceive  it,  the  jolly  fellows. 
They  know,  I  swear  to  you,  who  tended  the  coppers 
and  saucepans,  whether  I  or  my  wife.  What's  the 
result?  of  sixty  or  more  guests  that  I  saw  every  day 
at  my  table,  at  the  period  when  I  established  this 
miserable  restaurant,  I  do  not  receive  to-day  more 
than  about  twenty,  to  whom  I  give  credit  the  greater 
part  of  the  time.  The  Piedmontese,  the  Savoyards, 
are  gone;  but  the  connoisseurs,  people  of  taste,  the 
true  Italians,  have  remained.  For  them,  do  I  not 
also  make  a  sacrifice?  I  very  often  give  them,  for 
twenty-five  sous  a  head,  a  dinner  which  costs  me 
double." 

The  conversation  of  Signor  Giardini  savored  so 
much  of  the  artless  Neapolitan  rascality,  that  the 
delighted  count  imagined  himself  once  more  at  Gero- 
lamo. 

"  Since  this  is  the  case,  my  dear  landlord,"  said 
he,  familiarly  addressing  the  cook,  "since  chance 
and  your  confidence  have  acquainted  me  with  the 
secret  of  your  daily  sacrifices,  allow  me  to  double 
the  amount." 

On  finishing  these  words,  Andrea  tossed  upon  the 
stove  a  forty-franc  piece,  upon  which  Signor  Giardini 
religiously  returned  to  him  two  francs,  fifty  centimes, 
2 


1 8  GAMBARA 

not  without  some  discreet  ceremonies  which  highly 
delighted  him. 

"  In  a  few  minutes,"  resumed  Giardini,  "you  will 
see  your  donnina.  I  will  place  you  near  the  hus- 
band, and,  if  you  wish  to  get  into  his  good  graces, 
talk  about  music;  I  have  invited  them  both,  poor 
souls!  On  account  of  the  New  Year,  I  regale  my 
guests  with  a  dish,  in  the  preparation  of  which  I 
believe  I  have  surpassed  myself." 

The  voice  of  Signor  Giardini  was  drowned  by  the 
noisy  salutations  of  the  guests,  who  came  two  by 
two,  or  singly,  rather  capriciously,  according  to  the 
custom  of  table-d'hotes.  Giardini  endeavored  to 
keep  near  the  count,  and  acted  as  cicerone,  pointing 
out  to  him  his  regular  guests.  He  endeavored  by 
his  jests  to  provoke  a  smile  upon  the  lips  of  a  man 
in  whom  his  Neapolitan  instinct  perceived  a  rich 
patron  to  be  made  the  most  of. 

"  He,"  said  he,  "  is  a  poor  composer  who  would 
wish  to  pass  from  romance  to  opera  and  cannot.  He 
complains  of  directors,  of  music-dealers,  of  every- 
body except  himself,  and,  certainly,  he  has  no 
enemy  more  cruel. — You  see  what  a  florid  com- 
plexion, what  self-satisfaction,  how  little  effort  in 
his  features,  so  well  disposed  for  romance. — He  who 
accompanies  him,  and  has  the  air  of  a  match-seller, 
is  one  of  the  greatest  musical  celebrities,  Gigelmi ! 
the  greatest  Italian  orchestra  leader  known;  but  he 
is  deaf,  and  is  finishing  his  life,  unfortunately  de- 
prived of  that  which  embellished  it  for  him. — Oh! 
here  is  our  great  Ottoboni,  the  most  ingenuous  old 


GAMBARA  19 

man  that  the  earth  has  produced,  but  he  is  sus- 
pected of  being  the  most  violent  of  those  who  are 
anxious  for  the  regeneration  of  Italy.  I  wonder  how 
they  can  banish  so  amiable  an  old  man?" 

Here  Giardini  looked  at  the  count,  who,  feeling 
himself  sounded  on  the  political  side,  retrenched  him- 
self in  an  immobility  altogether  Italian. 

"A  man  obliged  to  cook  for  everybody  must  deny 
himself  the  right  of  having  a  political  opinion,  Excel- 
lency," said  the  cook,  continuing.  "  But  everyone, 
on  beholding  this  worthy  man,  who  has  more  the  air 
of  a  sheep  than  of  a  lion,  would  have  said  what  I 
think  before  the  Austrian  ambassador  himself.  Be- 
sides, we  are  in  a  time  when  liberty  is  no  longer 
proscribed,  and  is  about  to  recommence  its  round. 
These  worthy  people  believe  so,  at  least,"  said  he, 
approaching  the  ear  of  the  count,  "and  why  should 
I  contradict  their  hopes?  for  my  part,  I  do  not  hate 
absolutism,  Excellency!  Every  great  talent  is  ab- 
solutist! Well,  although  full  of  genius,  Ottoboni 
gives  himself  unheard-of  trouble  for  the  instruction 
of  Italy,  he  composes  little  books  to  enlighten  the 
minds  of  children  and  those  of  the  masses,  he  intro- 
duces them  very  skilfully  into  Italy,  he  employs 
every  means  to  re-establish  a  moral  for  our  poor 
country,  which  prefers  enjoyment  to  liberty,  per- 
haps with  reason." 

The  count  preserved  an  attitude  so  impassible, 
that  the  cook  could  discover  nothing  of  his  real 
political  opinions. 

"  Ottoboni,"  he  resumed,  "  is  a  holy  man,  he  is 


20  GAMBARA 

very  willing  to  help  others,  all  the  refugees  love  him, 
for,  Excellency,  a  liberal  may  have  virtues!" 

"  Oh!  oh!"  said  Giardini,  "  there's  a  journalist," 
pointing  out  a  man  who  had  the  ridiculous  costume 
that  was  formerly  given  to  poets  lodged  in  garrets, 
for  his  coat  was  threadbare,  his  boots  cracked,  his 
hat  greasy,  and  his  frock-coat  in  a  deplorable  state 
of  decay. — "Excellency,  that  poor  man  is  full  of 
talent  and  incorruptible!  he  has  made  a  mistake  as  to 
his  time,  he  tells  the  truth  to  everybody,  no  one  can 
endure  him.  He  renders  account  of  the  theatres  in 
two  obscure  journals,  although  he  is  sufficiently  well 
instructed  to  write  in  the  leading  journals.  Poor 
man!  The  others  are  not  worth  the  trouble  of  de- 
scribing to  you,  and  your  Excellency  will  guess 
them,"  said  he,  perceiving  that  on  the  appearance 
of  the  wife  of  the  composer  the  count  ceased  to  listen 
to  him. 

Beholding  Andrea,  the  Signora  Marianna  started, 
and  her  cheeks  flushed  deeply. 

"There  he  is,"  said  Giardini,  in  a  low  voice, 
grasping  the  arm  of  the  count,  and  pointing  out  a 
man  of  tall  stature.  "  See  how  pale  and  grave  he 
is!  poor  man!  To-day,  no  doubt,  his  hobby-horse 
has  not  trotted  to  his  satisfaction." 

The  amorous  preoccupation  of  Andrea  was  dis- 
turbed by  an  irresistible  charm  which  pointed  out 
Gambara  to  the  attention  of  every  true  artist.  The 
composer  had  attained  his  fortieth  year;  but  although 
his  broad,  bald  forehead  was  furrowed  with  a  few 
parallel  and  shallow  wrinkles,  notwithstanding  his 


GAMBARA  21 

hollow  temples,  where  a  few  veins  tinted  with  blue 
the  transparent  tissue  of  a  smooth  skin,  and  the 
depth  of  the  orbits,  in  which  his  black  eyes  with 
their  broad  lids  and  well-defined  lashes  were  set,  the 
lower  part  of  his  face  gave  him  every  appearance  ot 
youth  by  the  tranquillity  of  its  lines  and  the  softness 
of  its  contour.  The  first  glance  informed  the  observer 
that,  in  this  man,  passion  had  been  repressed  to  the 
profit  of  intelligence,  which  alone  had  grown  old  in 
some  great  struggle.  Andrea  cast  a  rapid  glance  at 
Marianna,  who  was  watching  him.  At  sight  of  this 
beautiful  Italian  head,  whose  exact  proportions  and 
splendid  coloring  revealed  one  of  those  organiza- 
tions in  which  all  the  human  forces  are  harmoni- 
ously balanced,  he  measured  the  abyss  which 
separated  these  two  beings  united  by  chance.  Happy 
in  the  presage  which  he  saw  in  this  dissimilarity 
between  the  two,  he  had  no  intention  of  defending 
himself  from  a  sentiment  which  must  raise  a  barrier 
between  the  beautiful  Marianna  and  him.  Already 
he  felt  for  this  man,  whose  sole  blessing  she  was,  a 
sort  of  respectful  pity  in  conjecturing  the  misfortune 
borne  with  dignity  and  serenity,  which  the  amiable 
and  melancholy  countenance  of  Gambara  implied. 
After  having  expected  to  meet  in  this  man  one  of 
those  grotesque  personages  so  often  brought  upon 
the  stage  by  the  German  story-tellers,  and  by  the 
poets  of  libretti,  he  found  a  simple  and  reserved 
man,  whose  manners  and  dress,  free  from  all  oddity, 
were  not  lacking  in  nobility.  Without  affording  the 
least  appearance  of  luxury,  his  costume  was  more 


22  GAMBARA 

becoming  than  that  which  would  have  corresponded 
to  his  profound  misery;  and  his  linen  gave  evidence 
of  the  tender  care  which  watched  over  the  smallest 
details  of  his  life.  Andrea  raised  his  humid  eyes 
upon  Marianna,  who  did  not  blush,  but  allowed  a 
half-smile  to  escape,  in  which,  perhaps,  appeared 
the  pride  which  this  mute  homage  inspired  in  her. 
Too  seriously  affected  not  to  detect  the  least  indica- 
tion of  complacency,  the  count,  upon  seeing  himself 
so  well  understood,  believed  that  he  was  loved.  From 
that  time,  he  was  occupied  in  the  conquest  of  the  hus- 
band rather  than  in  that  of  the  wife,  directing  all  his 
batteries  against  the  poor  Gambara,  who,  suspecting 
nothing,  swallowed,  without  tasting  them,  the  boc- 
coni  of  Signer  Giardini.  The  count  opened  the  con- 
versation upon  a  commonplace  topic;  but  from  the 
very  first  words,  he  held  this  intelligence  to  be  affect- 
edly blind,  perhaps,  on  one  point,  but  very  clear- 
sighted on  all  others,  and  saw  that  it  was  less  a 
question  of  caressing  the  fancy  of  this  malicious  good- 
natured  man,  than  of  endeavoring  to  understand  his 
ideas.  His  guests,  hungry  folk,  whose  spirit  awoke 
at  the  sight  of  a  meal  good  or  bad,  manifested  the 
most  hostile  disposition  toward  Gambara,  and  only 
awaited  the  end  of  the  first  course  to  give  wings  to 
their  wit.  One  refugee,  whose  frequent  glances 
betrayed  pretentious  projects  regarding  Marianna, 
and  who  thought  to  take  a  front  place  in  the  heart 
of  the  Italian  by  seeking  to  throw  ridicule  upon  her 
husband,  opened  fire  in  order  to  acquaint  the  newly- 
arrived  guest  with  the  customs  of  the  table-d'h6te. 


GAMBARA  23 

"  It's  a  good  while  now  since  we  heard  anything 
of  the  opera  of  Mahomet,"  cried  he,  smiling  upon 
Marianna.  "  Is  it  possible,  that,  entirely  absorbed 
in  domestic  cares  and  the  charms  of  soup  and  boiled 
meat,  Paolo  Gambara  would  neglect  a  superhuman 
talent,  and  allow  his  genius  to  grow  cold  and  his 
imagination  to  lose  fire?" 

Gambara  was  acquainted  with  the  guests;  he  felt 
himself  placed  in  a  sphere  so  superior,  that  he  no 
longer  took  the  trouble  to  repel  their  attacks;  he 
made  no  reply. 

"  It  is  not  given  to  everybody,"  observed  the 
journalist,  "to  have  sufficient  intelligence  to  com- 
prehend the  musical  lucubrations  of  monsieur,  and 
there,  doubtless,  lies  the  reason  which  hinders  our 
divine  maestro  from  appearing  before  the  good  Paris- 
ians." 

"  However,"  said  the  writer  of  romances,  who 
had  only  opened  his  mouth  to  engulf  everything 
that  was  offered,  "  I  know  people  of  talent  who 
set  a  certain  value  upon  the  judgment  of  the  Paris- 
ians. 1  have  some  reputation  in  music,"  added  he, 
with  a  modest  air,  "  I  owe  it  entirely  to  my  little 
vaudeville  airs,  and  to  the  success  which  my  country- 
dances  obtain  in  the  salons;  but  I  expect  soon  to  have 
a  mass  performed,  composed  for  the  anniversary  of 
the  death  of  Beethoven,  and  I  believe  that  I  shall 
be  better  understood  in  Paris  than  anywhere  else. 
Will  the  gentleman  do  me  the  honor  of  attending?" 
said  he,  addressing  Andrea. 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  the  count,  "  I  do  not  feel 


24  GAMBARA 

myself  endowed  with  the  organs  necessary  to  the 
appreciation  of  French  singing,  but,  if  you  were 
dead,  monsieur,  and  Beethoven  had  written  the 
mass,  I  should  not  fail  to  go  to  hear  it." 

This  jest  put  an  end  to  the  skirmish  of  those  who 
wished  to  draw  out  Gambara  in  the  direction  of  his 
whims  for  the  amusement  of  the  new-comer.  Andrea 
aleady  felt  some  repugnance  to  making  so  noble  and 
touching  a  mania  a  subject  of  entertainment  for  so 
much  vulgar  wisdom.  He  continued,  without  reserve, 
a  desultory  conversation,  during  which  the  nose  of 
Giardini  frequently  interposed  itself  between  ob- 
servations. Whenever  any  jocular  remark  in  good 
style,  or  any  paradoxical  idea,  escaped  from  Gam- 
bara, the  cook  put  forward  his  head,  cast  a  look  of 
pity  upon  the  musician,  one  of  intelligence  upon  the 
count,  and  said  in  his  ear:  "Ematto."  A  moment 
arrived  when  the  cook  interrupted  the  course  of  his 
judicious  observations,  in  order  to  attend  to  the 
second  course,  to  whichuhe  attached  the  greatest 
importance. — During  his  absence,  which  was  brief, 
Gambara  leaned  toward  the  ear  of  Andrea. 

"This  good  Giardini,"  he  said  to  him,  in  a  low 
voice,  "has  threatened  us  to-day  with  a  dish  of 
his  trade  which  I  desire  you  to  respect,  although  his 
wife  has  superintended  its  preparation. 

"  The  worthy  man  has  the  mania  of  kitchen  in- 
novation. He  has  ruined  himself  in  experiments, 
the  last  of  which  obliged  him  to  depart  from  Rome 
without  a  passport,  a  circumstance  upon  which  he 
is  silent.  After  having  purchased  a  restaurant  of 


GAMBARA  25 

good  reputation,  he  was  charged  with  an  entertain- 
ment given  by  a  recently  promoted  cardinal,  whose 
house  was  not  yet  furnished.  Giardini  thought  he 
had  found  an  opportunity  for  distinguishing  him- 
self; he  succeeded;  that  very  evening,  accused  of 
desiring  to  poison  the  whole  conclave,  he  was  com- 
pelled to  leave  Rome  and  Italy  without  packing  his 
trunks.  This  misfortune  inflicted  the  final  blow,  and 
now — " 

Gambara  placed  a  finger  on  the  middle  of  his  fore- 
head, and  shook  his  head. 

"Otherwise,"  added  he,  "he  is  a  worthy  man. 
My  wife  assures  me  we  are  under  many  obligations 
to  him." 

Giardini  appeared,  carrying  with  precaution  a 
dish,  which  he  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  table, 
and  afterward  he  returned  modestly  to  take  his 
place  near  Andrea,  who  was  served  first.  As  soon 
as  he  had  tasted  this  dish,  the  count  found  an  im- 
passable interval  between  the  first  and  second  mouth- 
ful. Great  was  his  embarrassment.  He  was  ex- 
tremely anxious  not  to  displease  the  cook,  who  was 
observing  him  attentively.  If  the  French  restaura- 
teur cares  little  about  seeing  a  dish  despised  whose 
payment  is  assured,  we  must  not  suppose  that  it  is 
the  same  with  an  Italian  restaurateur,  with  whom, 
frequently,  no  praise  given  is  sufficient.  To  gain 
time,  Andrea  complimented  Giardini  warmly,  but 
he  leaned  toward  the  ear  of  the  cook,  passed  a  gold 
piece  to  him  under  the  table,  and  requested  him  to 
go  and  purchase  some  bottles  of  champagne,  giving 


26  GAMBARA 

him  the  liberty  of  ascribing  all  the  honor  of  this 
liberality  to  himself. 

When  the  cook  returned,  all  the  plates  were 
empty,  and  the  apartment  resounded  with  the 
praises  of  the  steward.  The  champagne  soon  ex- 
cited the  heads  of  the  Italians,  and  the  conversation, 
until  then  restrained  by  the  presence  of  a  stranger, 
leaped  over  the  bounds  of  a  suspicious  reserve,  to 
spread  itself  here  and  there  over  the  immense 
fields  of  political  and  artistic  theories.  Andrea,  who 
knew  of  no  other  intoxications  than  those  of  love  and 
poetry,  soon  rendered  himself  master  of  the  general 
attention,  and  skilfully  guided  the  discussion  on  the 
domain  of  musical  questions. 

"Be  kind  enough  to  inform  me,  sir,"  said  he  to 
the  writer  of  country-dances,  "  how  the  Napoleon  of 
little  airs  humbles  himself  to  dethrone  Palestrina, 
Pergolesi,  Mozart,  poor  folk  who  pack  up,  bag  and 
baggage,  at  the  approach  of  this  thunderbolt  of  a 
death-mass." 

"Sir,"  answered  the  composer,  "a  musician  is 
always  embarrassed  in  answering,  when  his  an- 
swer requires  the  co-operation  of  a  hundred  skilful 
performers.  Mozart,  Hadyn,  and  Beethoven,  with- 
out an  orchestra,  amount  to  little." 

"To  little?"  replied  the  count,  "but  everybody 
knows  that  the  immortal  author  of  Don  Juan  and 
the  Requiem  is  named  Mozart,  and  I  have  the  mis- 
fortune not  to  know  the  name  of  the  prolific  writer 
of  country-dances,  which  are  so  much  in  demand  in 
the  salons." 


GAMBARA  27 

"Music  exists  independently  of  execution,"  said 
the  orchestra  leader,  who,  notwithstanding  his  deaf- 
ness, had  caught  some  words  of  the  discussion.  "  In 
opening  Beethoven's  symphony  in  C  minor,  a  mu- 
sical man  is  soon  translated  into  the  world  of  Fancy 
upon  the  golden  wings  of  the  theme  in  G  natu- 
ral, repeated  in  E  by  the  horns.  He  sees  a  whole 
nature  by  turns  illuminated  by  dazzling  sheafs  of 
light,  shadowed  by  clouds  of  melancholy,  cheered 
by  divine  song." 

"  Beethoven  is  surpassed  by  the  new  school," 
said  the  writer  of  romances,  disdainfully. 

"  He  is  not  yet  understood,"  answered  the  count, 
"  how  can  he  be  surpassed?" 

Here  Gambara  drank  a  large  glass  of  champagne, 
and  accompanied  his  libation  with  a  half-approving 
smile. 

"  Beethoven,"  resumed  the  count,  "  has  extended 
the  boundaries  of  instrumental  music,  and  no  one  has 
followed  him  in  his  flight." 

Gambara  dissented  by  a  movement  of  the  head. 

"  His  works  are  especially  remarkable  for  the 
simplicity  of  the  plan,  and  for  the  manner  in  which 
this  plan  is  followed  out,"  rejoined  the  count. — 
"With  the  majority  of  composers,  the  orchestral 
parts,  wild  and  disorderly,  combine  only  for  mo- 
mentary effect,  they  do  not  always  co-operate  by 
the  regularity  of  their  progress  to  the  effect  of  the 
piece  as  a  whole. — With  Beethoven,  the  effects  are, 
so  to  speak,  distributed  in  advance. — Like  the  dif- 
ferent regiments  which,  by  regular  movements  in  a 


28  GAMBARA 

battle,  contribute  to  the  victory,  the  orchestral  parts 
of  the  symphonies  of  Beethoven  follow  the  orders 
given  in  the  general  interest,  and  are  subordinated  to 
plans  admirably  well  conceived. — There  is  equality, 
in  this  respect,  with  a  genius  of  another  order. — In 
the  magnificent  historical  compositions  of  Walter 
Scott,  the  individual  furthest  removed  from  the 
action  comes,  at  a  given  moment,  by  threads  woven 
in  the  web  of  the  intrigue,  to  attach  himself  to  the 
denouement." 

"Evero!"  said  Gambara,  in  whom  good  sense 
seemed  to  return  in  inverse  ratio  to  his  sobriety. 

Wishing  to  push  the  proof  still  further,  Andrea 
forgot  for  a  moment  all  his  sympathies,  he  began 
to  attack  in  the  breach  the  European  reputation  of 
Rossini,  and  to  bring  that  suit  against  the  Italian 
School  which  it  has  won  every  evening  for  thirty 
years  in  more  than  a  hundred  theatres  of  Europe. 
Assuredly,  he  had  much  to  do.  The  first  words  he 
pronounced  raised  around  him  a  low  murmur  of  dis- 
approval. But  neither  the  frequent  interruptions, 
nor  the  exclamations,  nor  the  frowns,  nor  the  looks 
of  pity,  had  any  influence  upon  the  enthusiastic 
admirer  of  Beethoven. 

"  Compare,"  said  he,  "the  sublime  productions 
of  the  author  of  whom  I  have  just  been  speaking 
with  what  is  called  by  common  consent  Italian 
music:  what  inertia  of  thought!  what  tameness  of 
style!  Those  uniform  turns,  those  commonplace 
cadences,  those  eternal  flourishes  thrown  in  at  haz- 
ard without  regard  to  the  situation,  that  monotonous 


GAMBARA  2Q 

crescendo  that  Rossini  has  brought  into  vogue,  and 
which  is  to-day  an  integral  part  of  all  composition; 
finally,  those  nightingale  voluntaries  form  a  sort  of 
musical  chitchat,  gossipy,  perfumed,  whose  only 
merit  lies  in  the  facility  of  the  singer  and  the  agil- 
ity of  the  vocalization.  The  Italian  School  has  lost 
sight  of  the  high  mission  of  art.  Instead  of  elevating 
the  multitude  to  itself,  it  has  descended  to  the  multi- 
tude; it  has  won  popularity  merely  by  accepting  the 
votes  of  all  hands,  appealing  to  the  intelligence  of 
the  vulgar,  who  are  in  the  majority.  Its  popularity 
is  a  juggler's  trick  of  the  cross-roads.  Finally,  the 
compositions  of  Rossini,  in  whom  this  music  is  per- 
sonified, together  with  those  of  the  masters  who  pro- 
ceed more  or  less  from  him,  appear  worthy  at  most 
to  collect  a  crowd  in  the  streets  around  a  barrel- 
organ,  and  to  accompany  the  capers  of  Punch  and 
Judy.  I  prefer  the  French  music,  and  that  is  saying 
everything. — Long  live  the  German  music! — when 
it  can  sing,"  he  added  in  a  low  voice. 

This  attack  was  the  summing  up  of  a  long  argu- 
ment in  which  Andrea  had  sustained  himself  for 
more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  highest  regions 
of  metaphysics  with  the  ease  of  a  somnambulist  who 
walks  upon  the  roofs.  Deeply  interested  in  these 
subtleties,  Gambara  had  not  lost  a  word  of  the  whole 
discussion;  he  continued  the  conversation  as  soon  as 
Andrea  appeared  to  have  abandoned  it,  and  then  a 
movement  of  attention  took  place  among  all  the 
guests,  of  whom  several  were  disposed  to  leave  the 
place. 


30  GAMBARA 

"You  attack,  with  great  vigor,  the  Italian  School," 
resumed  Gambara,  much  animated  with  the  cham- 
pagne, "which,  moreover,  is  to  myself  rather 
indifferent. — Thank  God,  I  am  outside  of  those 
poverties  more  or  less  melodic!  But  a  man  of  the 
world  shows  little  gratitude  toward  that  classic  land 
whence  Germany  and  France  derived  their  first 
lessons.  While  the  compositions  of  Carissimi,  Ca- 
valli,  Scarlatti,  Rossi,  were  being  performed  through- 
out Italy,  the  violinists  of  the  Paris  opera  had  the 
singular  privilege  of  playing  the  violin  with  gloves. 
Lulli,  who  extended  the  empire  of  harmony,  and 
was  the  first  to  class  the  discords,  found,  upon  his 
arrival  in  France,  but  one  cook  and  a  mason  who  had 
voices  and  intelligence  sufficient  to  execute  his  music. 
He  made  a  tenor  of  the  first,  and  metamorphosed  the 
second  into  a  bass.  At  that  time,  Germany,  with 
the  exception  of  Sebastian  Bach,  was  ignorant  of 
music.  But,  sir,"  said  Gambara  in  the  humble  tone 
of  a  man  who  fears  to  see  his  words  received  with 
disdain  or  ill-will,  "although  young,  you  have  studied, 
for  a  long  time,  these  high  questions  of  art,  without 
which  you  would  not  expound  them  with  so  much 
clearness." 

This  remark  made  some  of  the  audience  smile, 
who  had  understood  nothing  of  the  distinctions 
established  by  Andrea.  Giardini,  persuaded  that 
the  count  had  uttered  only  unimportant  phrases, 
pushed  him  slightly,  laughing  in  his  sleeve  at  a  mys- 
tification in  which  he  was  fain  to  believe  himself  an 
accomplice. 


GAMBARA  31 

"  There  are,  in  what  you  have  just  said  to  us, 
many  things  which  appear  to  me  very  sensible," 
said  Gambara,  continuing;  "but  be  careful !  Your 
plea,  in  withering  the  Italian  sensualism,  appears  to 
me  to  incline  toward  the  German  idealism,  which  is 
an  equally  fatal  heresy.  If  men  of  imagination  and 
sense,  such  as  you,  only  desert  one  camp  to  pass 
to  the  other;  if  they  cannot  remain  neutral  between 
the  two  excesses,  we  shall  eternally  suffer  the  irony 
of  those  sophists  who  deny  progress,  and  compare 
the  genius  of  man  to  that  cloth  which,  too  short  to 
cover  entirely  the  table  of  Signor  Giardini,  only  fur- 
nishes one  extremity  at  the  expense  of  the  other." 

Giardini  bounded  upon  his  chair,  as  if  he  had  been 
stung  by  a  horsefly,  but  a  sudden  reflection  restored 
him  to  his  amphitryonic  dignity;  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  Heaven,  and  again  pushed  the  count,  who  began 
to  think  his  host  was  madder  than  Gambara.  This 
grave  and  religious  manner  of  speaking  of  art  inter- 
ested the  Milanese  in  the  highest  degree.  Placed 
between  these  two  insanities,  of  which  one  was  so 
noble  and  the  other  so  vulgar,  who  mutually  scoffed 
at  each  other  to  the  great  amusement  of  the  com- 
pany, there  was  a  moment  when  the  count  saw 
himself  tossed  about  between  the  sublime  and  the 
ridiculous,  those  two  farces  of  all  human  creation. 
Breaking,  then,  the  chain  of  the  incredible  transi- 
tions which  had  brought  him  to  this  smoky  hole,  he 
believed  himself  the  sport  of  some  strange  hallucina- 
tion, and  no  longer  regarded  Giardini  and  Gambara 
but  as  two  abstractions. 


32  GAMBARA 

Meanwhile,  at  a  final  sally  of  buffoonery  by  the 
orchestra  leader,  who  replied  to  Gambara,  the  guests 
had  retired  amid  roars  of  laughter.  Giardini  left  to 
prepare  the  coffee,  which  he  wished  to  offer  to  the 
elite  of  his  guests.  His  wife  cleared  the  table.  The 
count,  seated  near  the  stove,  between  Marianna  and 
Gambara,  was  precisely  in  the  situation  which  the 
infatuated  one  found  so  desirable:  he  had  the  sen- 
sualism on  his  left,  and  the  idealism  on  his  right. 
Gambara,  meeting  for  the  first  time  a  man  who  did 
not  laugh  in  his  face,  lost  no  time  in  departing  from 
generalities  in  order  to  speak  of  himself,  of  his  life, 
of  his  works,  and  of  the  musical  regeneration  of 
which  he  believed  himself  the  Messiah. 

"  Listen,  you  who  have  not  insulted  me  so  far!  I 
wish  to  relate  to  you  my  life,  not  to  parade  a  con- 
stancy which  does  not  come  from  myself,  but  for  the 
greater  glory  of  him  who  has  put  his  strength  in  me. 
You  appear  good  and  pious;  if  you  do  not  believe  in 
me,  at  least  you  will  pity  me:  pity  is  of  man,  faith 
comes  from  God." 

Andrea,  blushing,  withdrew  beneath  his  chair  a 
foot  which  grazed  that  of  the  beautiful  Marianna, 
and  concentrated  his  attention  upon  her,  while  listen- 
ing to  Gambara. 


"  I  was  born  at  Cremona,  of  a  manufacturer  of 
instruments,  a  pretty  good  performer,  but  stronger 
as  a  composer,"  resumed  the  musician.  "  I  was  able, 
therefore,  at  an  early  age,  to  acquire  the  laws  of 
musical  construction,  in  its  double  expression,  ma- 
terial and  spiritual,  and  as  an  inquisitive  child,  to 
make  remarks  which,  later,  have  been  represented  in 
the  spirit  of  the  matured  man.  The  French  drove  us 
away,  my  father  and  myself,  from  our  home.  We 
were  ruined  by  the  war.  From  the  age  of  ten  years, 
1  began  the  wandering  life  to  which  nearly  all  men 
have  been  condemned  who  revolved  in  their  mind 
innovations  in  art,  science,  or  politics.  Fate,  or  the 
dispositions  of  their  minds,  which  do  not  agree  with 
the  compartments  in  which  bourgeois  minds  are  con- 
tained, impel  them  providentially  to  the  points  upon 
which  they  must  receive  their  instruction.  Incited 
by  my  passion  for  music,  I  went  from  theatre  to  the- 
atre throughout  Italy,  living  upon  little,  as  people 
live  there.  Sometimes  I  took  the  bass  in  an  orches- 
tra; at  other  times,  I  found  myself  upon  the  stage  in 
the  choruses,  or  under  the  stage  with  the  machinists. 
Thus  1  studied  music  in  all  its  effects,  interrogating 
the  instrument  and  the  human  voice,  asking  myself 
in  what  they  differ,  in  what  they  agree,  listening  to 
the  scores  and  applying  the  laws  which  my  father 
had  taught  me.  At  times,  I  travelled,  repairing 
3  (33) 


34  GAMBARA 

instruments.  It  was  a  life  without  bread  in  a  coun- 
try where  the  sun  always  shines,  where  art  is 
everywhere,  but  where  there  has  been  no  money 
anywhere  for  the  artist  since  Rome  has  been  only  in 
name  the  queen  of  the  Christian  world.  Sometimes 
heartily  welcomed,  sometimes  driven  away  for  my 
poverty,  I  did  not  lose  courage;  I  listened  to  the 
voice  within,  which  proclaimed  to  me  glory!  Music 
appeared  to  me  to  be  in  its  infancy.  This  opinion  I 
have  retained. 

"  All  that  remains  to  us  of  the  musical  world  prior 
to  the  seventeenth  century  has  proved  to  me  that 
the  ancient  authors  were  acquainted  with  melody 
only;  they  were  ignorant  of  harmony  and  of  its 
immense  resources.  Music  is  at  once  a  science 
and  an  art.  The  roots  which  it  has  in  physics  and 
mathematics  make  it  a  science;  it  becomes  an  art  by 
inspiration,  which  employs  unconsciously  the  theo- 
rems of  science.  It  holds  to  physics  by  the  very 
essence  of  the  substance  which  it  employs:  sound 
is  modified  air;  air  is  composed  of  principles  which, 
without  doubt,  discover  in  us  analogous  principles 
which  correspond  to  them,  sympathize  with  them, 
and  expand  by  the  power  of  thought.  Thus  the  air 
must  contain  as  many  particles  of  different  elastici- 
ties, and  capable  of  as  many  vibrations  of  different 
lengths  as  there  are  tones  in  the  sonorous  bodies, 
and  these  particles  perceived  by  our  ear,  set  in 
motion  by  the  musician,  correspond  to  ideas  accord- 
ing to  our  organizations.  In  my  opinion,  the  nature 
of  sound  is  identical  with  that  of  light.  Sound  is 


GAMBARA  35 

light  under  another  form:  both  proceed  by  vibrations 
which  terminate  in  man  and  which  he  transforms 
into  thoughts  in  his  nervous  centres.  Music,  like 
painting,  makes  use  of  bodies  which  possess  the 
power  of  separating  such  or  such  a  property  from 
the  mother-substance  in  order  to  compose  pictures 
of  it.  In  music,  the  instruments  perform  the  office  of 
the  colors  which  the  painter  employs.  Since  every 
sound  produced  by  a  sonorous  body  is  always  accom- 
panied by  its  major  third  and  its  fifth,  and  affects 
particles  of  dust  placed  upon  a  stretched  parchment, 
so  as  to  trace  upon  it  figures  of  geometrical  construc- 
tion, always  the  same,  according  to  the  different 
volumes  of  sound,  regular  when  a  harmony  is  pro- 
duced, and  without  precise  forms  in  the  case  of  a 
discord,  I  say  that  music  is  an  art  woven  in  the  very 
bowels  of  Nature.  Music  obeys  physical  and  mathe- 
matical laws.  The  physical  laws  are  little  known, 
the  mathematical  laws  are  better  known;  and  since 
their  relations  began  to  be  studied,  harmony  has 
been  created  to  which  we  owe  Haydn,  Mozart, 
Beethoven,  and  Rossini,  fine  geniuses,  who  have 
certainly  produced  music  superior  to  that  of  their 
predecessors,  whose  genius,  moreover,  is  incontest- 
able. The  old  masters  sang  instead  of  arrang- 
ing art  and  science,  a  noble  alliance  which  allows 
us  to  melt  into  one  all  the  beautiful  melodies  and 
powerful  harmony.  Now,  if  the  discovery  of  the 
mathematical  laws  has  produced  these  four  great 
musicians,  where  might  we  not  arrive  if  we  found 
the  physical  laws  in  virtue  of  which — understand 


36  GAMBARA 

this  well — we  collect  in  greater  or  less  quantity, 
according  to  the  proportions  to  be  sought,  a  certain 
ethereal  substance  diffused  in  the  air,  and  which 
gives  us  music  as  well  as  light,  the  phenomena  of 
vegetation  as  well  as  those  of  zoology.  Do  you 
understand?  These  new  laws  would  arm  the  com- 
poser with  new  powers  in  offering  him  instruments 
superior  to  present  instruments  and,  perhaps,  a  har- 
mony which,  compared  with  that  which  now  governs 
music,  would  be  truly  grand. 

"  If  every  modified  sound  answers  to  a  power,  we 
must  know  that  power,  in  order  to  unite  all  these 
forces  according  to  their  true  laws.  Composers  work 
in  substances  which  are  unknown  to  them.  Why 
have  the  instrument  of  metal  and  the  instrument 
of  wood,  the  bassoon  and  the  horn,  so  little  resem- 
blance, though  employing  the  same  substances, — 
the  constituent  gases  of  the  air?  Their  dissimilarity 
proceeds  from  some  decomposition  of  these  gases  or 
from  an  apprehension  of  principles  peculiar  to  them, 
and  which  they  return  modified,  in  virtue  of  un- 
known powers.  If  we  knew  these  powers,  science 
and  art  would  gain.  What  extends  science,  extends 
art.  Well,  I  have  scented  out  these  discoveries,  I 
have  made  them." 

"Yes,"  remarked  Gambara,  becoming  animated, 
"  hitherto  man  has  rather  observed  the  effects  than 
the  causes.  If  he  penetrated  the  causes,  music 
would  become  the  greatest  of  all  the  arts.  Is  it  not 
the  one  that  penetrates  deepest  into  the  soul?  You 
see  only  what  the  picture  shows  you,  you  hear  only 


GAMBARA  37 

what  the  poet  says  to  you;  music  goes  far  beyond: 
does  it  not  shape  your  thought?  does  it  not  arouse 
the  torpid  memory?  Take  a  thousand  souls  in  a 
hall:  a  motive  bursts  forth  from  the  throat  of  Pasta, 
whose  execution  responds  happily  to  the  thoughts 
which  burned  in  the  soul  of  Rossini  when  he  wrote 
the  air;  Rossini's  phrase  transmitted  into  those  souls 
develops  as  many  different  poems;  to  this  one  ap- 
pears a  woman  long  dreamed  of ;  to  that  one,  I  know 
not  what  bank  along  which  he  has  strolled,  and 
whose  trailing  willows,  clear  wave,  and  the  hopes 
that  danced  beneath  the  leafy  bowers  appear  to 
him;  this  woman  recalls  the  thousand  feelings  that 
tortured  her  during  an  hour  of  jealousy;  another 
thinks  of  the  unsatisfied  desires  of  her  heart,  and 
paints  with  the  rich  colors  of  the  dream  an  ideal 
being  to  whom  she  surrenders  herself,  experiencing 
the  delight  of  the  woman  caressing  her  chimera  in 
the  Roman  mosaic;  another  imagines  that  she  will 
realize  some  desire  that  very  evening,  and  plunges 
in  advance  into  the  torrent  of  pleasures,  receiving 
the  buoyant  waves  upon  her  burning  breast.  Music 
alone  has  the  power  of  restoring  us  to  ourselves; 
while  other  arts  give  us  defined  pleasures.  But  I  am 
going  astray.  Such  were  my  first  ideas,  very  vague, 
for  an  inventor  at  first  gets  but  a  glimpse  of  a  sort 
of  Aurora.  I  carried,  therefore,  these  glorious  ideas 
at  the  bottom  of  my  wallet,  they  enabled  me  to 
eat  cheerfully  the  dry  crust  which  I  often  dipped  in 
the  water  of  the  fountains;  I  worked,  I  composed 
airs,  and,  after  having  executed  them  upon  any 


38  GAMBARA 

sort  of  instrument,  I  resumed  my  travels  through 
Italy. 

"  Finally,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  I  came  to  live  in 
Venice,  where,  for  the  first  time,  1  tasted  tranquillity, 
and  found  myself  in  a  supportable  condition.  There 
I  made  the  acquaintance  of  an  old  Venetian  nobleman, 
who  was  pleased  with  my  ideas,  who  encouraged 
me  in  my  researches,  and  procured  me  employment 
in  the  theatre  of  Venice.  Living  was  cheap,  lodg- 
ing cost  little.  1  occupied  rooms  in  that  palace  Ca- 
pello  whence  the  famous  Bianca  stepped  forth  one 
evening,  who  became  grand  duchess  of  Tuscany. — I 
imagined  that  my  unknown  glory  would  also  go  forth 
thence  some  day  to  be  crowned.  I  passed  the  even- 
ings at  the  theatre,  and  the  days  at  work.  I  met 
with  a  disaster.  The  performance  of  an  opera,  in 
whose  score  I  had  tried  my  music,  failed.  They 
understood  nothing  of  my  music  of  the  Martyrs. 
Give  Beethoven  to  the  Italians,  they  are  lost.  No 
one  had  the  patience  to  await  an  effect  prepared 
by  different  themes  assigned  to  each  instrument, 
which  were  to  rally  together  in  a  grand  whole.  I 
had  founded  some  hopes  on  the  opera  of  the  Martyrs, 
for  we  always  discount  success,  we  lovers  of  the  blue 
goddess,  Hope!  When  we  believe  ourselves  des- 
tined to  produce  great  things,  it  is  difficult  not  to 
have  a  presentiment  of  them:  the  bushel  always  has 
chinks  through  which  the  light  passes. 

"  In  this  house  lived  the  family  of  my  wife,  and  the 
hope  of  obtaining  the  hand  of  Marianna,  who  often 
smiled  upon  me  from  her  window,  had  contributed 


GAMBARA  39 

much  to  my  efforts.  I  fell  into  a  dark  melancholy, 
measuring  the  depth  of  the  abyss  into  which  I  had 
fallen,  for  I  saw  clearly  a  life  of  misery,  a  constant 
struggle,  in  which  love  must  perish.  Marianna, 
like  genius,  with  feet  together,  leaped  over  all  diffi- 
culties. I  will  not  tell  you  the  little  happiness  which 
gilded  the  beginning  of  my  misfortunes.  Terrified 
by  my  fall,  I  judged  that  Italy,  with  a  paucity  of 
comprehension,  and  lulled  by  constantly  expressed, 
routine  phrases,  was  not  disposed  to  receive  the  in- 
novations which  I  meditated;  therefore  I  thought  of 
Germany.  Travelling  into  this  country,  I  passed 
through  Hungary,  I  listened  to  the  thousand  voices 
of  nature,  and  I  strove  to  reproduce  those  sublime 
harmonies  with  the  aid  of  instruments  which  I  con- 
structed or  modified  for  this  purpose.  These  experi- 
ments were  attended  with  enormous  expense,  which 
soon  absorbed  our  savings.  That  was,  however, 
our  happiest  time:  I  was  appreciated  in  Germany. 
I  know  nothing  in  my  life  greater  than  this  period.  I 
cannot  compare  anything  to  the  tumultuous  sensa- 
tions which  attacked  me  when  near  Marianna,  whose 
beauty  then  was  clothed  with  celestial  splendor  and 
power.  Must  I  say  it?  I  was  happy. 

"  During  those  hours  of  weakness,  more  than  once 
I  addressed  to  my  passion  the  language  of  terrestrial 
harmony.  I  happened  to  compose  some  of  those 
melodies  which  resemble  geometric  figures,  and  are 
much  prized  in  the  society  in  which  you  live.  I  no 
sooner  met  with  success  than  I  encountered  invin- 
cible obstacles  multiplied  by  my  compeers,  all  filled 


40  GAMBARA 

with  treachery  or  folly.  I  had  heard  France  spoken 
of  as  a  country  where  innovations  were  favorably 
received.  I  desired  to  go  there;  my  wife  found 
some  means,  and  we  arrived  in  Paris.  Till  then 
they  had  not  laughed  in  my  face.  But,  in  this 
dreadful  city,  I  was  obliged  to  endure  this  new  kind 
of  torture  to  which  misery  soon  added  its  poignant 
anguish.  Reduced  to  lodging  in  this  infected  neigh- 
borhood, we  have  lived  for  several  months  on  Mari- 
anna's  work  alone,  who  has  plied  her  needle  in  the 
service  of  the  unfortunate  women  who  make  this 
street  their  customary  walk.  Marianna  declares 
that,  among  these  poor  women,  she  has  met  with 
respect  and  generosity,  which  I  attribute  to  the 
ascendency  of  virtue  so  pure  that  vice  itself  is 
constrained  to  respect  it." 

"Hope!"  said  Andrea.  "Perhaps  you  have  ar- 
rived at  the  termination  of  your  trials.  Until  my 
efforts,  joined  to  your  own,  have  brought  your  works 
to  light,  allow  a  fellow-countryman,  an  artist  like 
yourself,  to  offer  you  some  advance  upon  the  infal- 
lible success  of  your  score." 

"All  that  enters  into  the  conditions  of  material 
life  belongs  to  the  province  of  my  wife,"  replied 
Gambara,  "She  will  decide  what  we  can  accept 
without  blushing  from  so  gallant  a  man  as  you 
appear  to  be.  As  for  me,  who  have  not  permitted 
myself  for -a  long  time  to  enter  into  such  prolonged 
confidences,  I  ask  your  permission  to  leave  you.  I 
see  a  melody  that  invites  me,  it  passes  and  dances 
before  me,  naked  and  shivering,  like  a  beautiful  girl 


GAMBARA  41 

who  demands  of  her  lover  the  clothes  which  he 
keeps  concealed.  Adieu!  I  must  go  and  dress  a 
mistress,  I  leave  to  you  my  wife." 

He  made  his  escape,  like  a  man  who  reproached 
himself  for  having  lost  valuable  time,  and  Marianna, 
embarrassed,  wished  to  follow  him  ;  Andrea  dared 
not  detain  her;  Giardini  came  to  the  succor  of  both. 

"You  have  heard,  signorina,"  said  he.  "Your 
husband  has  left  you  more  than  one  affair  to  regu- 
late with  the  seigneur  comte." 

Marianna  sat  down  again,  but  without  raising  her 
eyes  to  Andrea,  who  hesitated  to  speak  to  her. 

"Will  not  the  confidence  of  Signer  Gambara," 
said  Andrea  in  a  broken  voice,  "ensure  me  that  of 
his  wife?  Will  the  beautiful  Marianna  refuse  to 
make  me  acquainted  with  the  history  of  her  life?" 

"  My  life,"  replied  Marianna,  "  my  life  is  that  of 
the  ivy.  If  you  would  learn  the  history  of  my  heart, 
you  must  believe  me  to  be  as  exempt  from  pride  as 
devoid  of  modesty  to  ask  of  me  its  recital  after  what 
you  have  just  heard." 

"And  of  whom  shall  I  ask  it?"  cried  the  count, 
with  whom  passion  was  already  extinguishing  un- 
derstanding. 

"  Of  yourself,"  answered  Marianna.  "  Either  you 
have  already  understood  me  or  you  will  never  under- 
stand me.  Try  to  question  yourself." 

"  I  consent,  but  you  will  listen  to  me.  This  hand 
which  I  have  taken,  you  will  leave  in  mine  so  long 
as  my  recital  shall  be  faithful." 

"I  am  listening,"  said  Marianna. 


42  GAMBARA 

"  The  life  of  a  woman  begins  with  her  first  pas- 
sion," said  Andrea.  "My  dear  Marianna  began  to 
live  only  on  the  day  she,  for  the  first  time,  saw 
Paolo  Gambara;  to  enjoy  a  deep  passion  was  to  her 
a  necessity,  but  especially  to  have  some  interesting 
weakness  to  protect,  to  support.  The  fine  womanly 
organization  with  which  she  is  endowed  calls,  per- 
haps, still  less  for  love  than  for  maternity.  You 
sigh,  Marianna?  I  have  touched  one  of  the  living 
wounds  of  your  heart.  It  is  a  fine  part  for  you  to 
take,  so  young,  that  of  protectress  of  a  fine  intel- 
ligence gone  astray.  You  said  to  yourself:  '  Paolo 
will  be  my  genius,  I  shall  be  his  reason;  we  two  shall 
make  that  being,  almost  divine,  which  is  called  an 
angel,  that  sublime  creature  that  enjoys  and  compre- 
hends without  Wisdom's  stifling  love.'  Then,  in  the 
first  fervor  of  youth,  you  heard  those  thousand  voices 
of  nature  that  the  poet  wished  to  reproduce.  Enthu- 
siasm seized  you  when  Paolo  spread  out  before  you 
those  treasures  of  poetry,  seeking  the  formula  in  the 
sublime  but  limited  language  of  music,  and  you  ad- 
mired him  while  a  delirious  exaltation  carried  him  far 
from  you,  for  you  were  fain  to  believe  that  all  that 
wandering  energy  would  be  finally  restored  to  love. 
You  were  ignorant  of  the  tyrannical  and  jealous  em- 
pire which  thought  exercises  over  the  brains  which 
become  enamored  of  her.  Gambara  had  given  him- 
self up,  before  becoming  acquainted  with  you,  to  the 
proud  and  vindictive  mistress  with  whom  you  have 
in  vain  disputed  for  him  up  to  this  day.  A  single 
moment  you  had  a  glimpse  of  happiness. 


GAMBARA  43 

"Fallen  from  the  heights  to  which  his  spirit  inces- 
santly soared,  Paolo  was  astonished  to  find  the  reality 
so  sweet;  you  might  well  have  thought  that  his  folly 
would  fall  asleep  in  the  arms  of  love.  But  music  soon 
recovered  her  prey.  The  dazzling  mirage,  which  had 
suddenly  transported  you  to  the  midst  of  the  delights 
of  a  mutual  passion,  rendered  the  solitary  path  in 
which  you  were  engaged  more  arid  and  gloomy. 
In  the  story  which  your  husband  has  just  given  us, 
as  in  the  striking  contrast  between  your  features  and 
his,  I  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  secret  anguish  of 
your  life,  the  sorrowful  mysteries  of  this  ill-assorted 
union  in  which  you  have  assumed  the  lot  of  suffering. 
If  your  conduct  was  always  heroic,  if  your  energy 
failed  not  once  in  the  exercise  of  your  painful  duties, 
perhaps,  in  the  silence  of  your  solitary  nights,  that 
heart  whose  beating  at  this  moment  swells  your 
breast  murmured  more  than  once.  Your  most  cruel 
torture  was  the  very  greatness  of  your  husband : 
less  noble,  less  pure,  you  might  have  been  able 
to  abandon  him;  but  his  virtues  sustained  yours; 
between  your  heroism  and  his  you  asked  your- 
self who  would  give  way  the  last.  You  were  pur- 
suing the  real  greatness  of  your  task,  as  Paolo  was 
pursuing  his  chimera.  If  the  love  of  duty  alone 
could  have  sustained  and  guided  you,  perhaps  the 
triumph  might  have  seemed  easier;  it  might  have 
been  sufficient  to  kill  your  heart  and  to  transport 
your  life  into  the  world  of  abstractions,  religion 
would  have  absorbed  the  rest,  and  you  would  have 
lived  in  an  idea,  like  the  holy  women  who  extinguish 


44  GAMBARA 

at  the  foot  of  the  altar  the  instincts  of  nature.  But 
the  charm  that  overspread  the  whole  person  of  your 
Paul,  the  elevation  of  his  mind,  the  rare  and  touch- 
ing evidences  of  his  tenderness,  drove  you  con- 
stantly out  of  this  ideal  world,  where  virtue  wished 
to  retain  you;  they  restored  your  strength  ceaselessly 
exhausted  in  struggling  against  the  phantom  of  love. 
You  doubted  not  as  yet!  the  slightest  gleams  of  hope 
carried  you  away  in  pursuit  of  your  sweet  chimera. 
Finally,  the  deceptions  of  so  many  years  have  ex- 
hausted your  patience;  an  angel's  might  long  since 
have  failed.  To-day,  this  appearance  so  long  pur- 
sued is  a  shadow,  not  a  substance.  A  madness 
which  touches  genius  so  closely  must  be  incurable 
in  this  world.  Struck  with  this  thought,  you  have 
reflected  upon  your  whole  youth,  if  not  lost,  at  least 
sacrificed;  you  have  recognized  with  bitterness  the 
error  of  nature,  which  gave  you  a  father  when  you 
called  for  a  husband.  You  wondered  whether  you  had 
not  exceeded  the  duties  of  the  wife  in  devoting 
yourself  entirely  to  this  man  who  reserved  himself 
for  science.  Marianna,  let  me  retain  your  hand,  all 
that  I  have  said  is  true.  And  you  have  cast  your 
eyes  around  you;  but  you  were  then  in  Paris,  and 
not  in  Italy,  where  they  know  well  how  to  love — " 
"Oh!  let  me  finish  this  recital,"  cried  Marianna; 
"  I  would  rather  say  these  things  myself.  I  will  be 
frank.  I  feel  now  that  I  am  speaking  to  my  best 
friend.  Yes,  I  was  in  Paris  when  everything  passed 
within  me  which  you  have  just  explained  so  clearly; 
but  when  I  saw  you,  I  was  saved;  for  nowhere  had 


GAMBARA  45 

I  met  with  the  love  dreamed  of  from  my  childhood. 
My  costume  and  my  dwelling  withdrew  me  from  the 
observation  of  men  like  yourself.  Some  young 
men,  whom  their  situation  did  not  permit  to  insult 
me,  became  still  more  odious  to  me  by  the  levity 
with  which  they  treated  me.  Some  scoffed  at 
my  husband  as  a  ridiculous  old  man,  others  basely 
sought  to  win  his  favor  in  order  to  betray  him;  all 
spoke  of  my  separating  from  him.  No  one  under- 
stood the  worship  which  I  had  paid  to  that  soul, 
which  js  only  so  far  from  us  because  it  is  so  near  to 
heaven,  to  that  friend,  to  that  brother  whom  I  wish 
always  to  serve.  You  alone  have  understood  the  tie 
which  binds  me  to  him,  is  it  not  so?  Tell  me  that 
you  take  a  sincere  interest  in  my  Paul,  and  without 
any  ulterior  motive — " 

"I  accept  this  praise,"  interrupted  Andrea;  "but 
do  not  go  further,  do  not  compel  me  to  contradict 
you.  I  love  you,  Marianna,  as  they  love  in  that 
beautiful  country  where  we  were  both  born;  I  love 
you  with  all  my  soul  and  all  my  strength;  but  be- 
fore offering  you  this  love,  I  wish  to  render  myself 
worthy  of  yours.  I  will  try  a  last  effort  to  restore 
to  you  the  man  whom  you  have  loved  since  child- 
hood, the  man  whom  you  will  always  love.  Await- 
ing success  or  defeat,  accept  without  blushing  the 
assistance  that  I  wish  to  give  you  both;  to-morrow 
we  will  go  together  and  choose  a  lodging  for  him. 
Do  you  esteem  me  sufficiently  to  associate  me  in 
the  functions  of  your  guardianship?" 

Marianna,  astonished  at  this  generosity,  extended 


46  GAMBARA 

her  hand  to  the  count,  who  left,  trying  to  escape  the 
civilities  of  Signor  Giardini  and  his  wife. 

The  following  day,  the  count  was  introduced  by 
Giardini  into  the  apartment  of  the  married  couple. 
Although  the  lofty  mind  of  her  lover  was  already 
known  to  her,  for  there  are  certain  souls  that 
promptly  interpenetrate,  Marianna  was  too  good  a 
housewife  not  to  betray  the  embarrassment  she 
felt  in  receiving  so  great  a  lord  in  so  poor  a  room. 
Everything  there  was  very  clean.  She  had  spent 
the  whole  morning  in  dusting  its  strange  furniture, 
the  work  of  Signor  Giardini,  who  had  constructed  it 
in  his  leisure  moments  with  the  remains  of  instru- 
ments rejected  by  Gambara.  Andrea  had  never  seen 
anything  so  extravagant.  In  order  to  maintain  a  be- 
coming gravity,  he  ceased  to  observe  a  grotesque 
bed  contrived  by  the  malicious  cook  in  the  case  of 
an  old  harpsichord,  and  turned  his  eyes  to  the  bed 
of  Marianna,  a  narrow  little  couch  whose  only  mat- 
tress was  covered  with  white  muslin,  a  sight  which 
inspired  him  with  thoughts  at  once  sad  and  sweet. 
He  desired  to  speak  of  his  projects  and  employment 
of  the  morning,  but  the  enthusiastic  Gambara,  be- 
lieving that  he  had  at  last  met  with  a  benevolent 
listener,  took  possession  of  the  count  and  compelled 
him  to  listen  to  the  opera  which  he  had  written  for 
Paris. 

"And  first,  monsieur,"  said  Gambara, <f  permit  me 
to  inform  you  in  two  words  of  the  subject.  Here, 
the  people  who  receive  musical  impressions  do  not 
develop  them  in  themselves,  as  religion  teaches  us  to 


GAMBARA  47 

develop  by  prayer  the  holy  texts;  it  is,  therefore,  very 
difficult  to  make  them  understand  that  there  exists 
in  nature  an  eternal  music,  a  sweet  melody,  a  perfect 
harmony,  disturbed  only  by  the  independent  revo- 
lutions of  the  divine  will  as  the  passions  are  by  the 
will  of  men.  I  had,  then,  to  find  an  immense  frame 
which  might  embrace  the  effects  and  the  causes,  for 
my  music  has  for  aim  to  offer  a  picture  of  the  life 
of  nations  taken  at  its  most  elevated  point  of  view. 
My  opera,  whose  libretto  has  been  composed  by  my- 
self, for  a  poet  would  never  have  developed  its  sub- 
ject, embraces  the  life  of  Mahomet,  a  personage  in 
whom  the  magic  of  the  ancient  Sabianism  and  the 
oriental  poetry  of  the  Jewish  religion  are  united  to 
produce  one  of  the  grandest  of  human  poems,  the 
domination  of  the  Arabs.  Certainly,  Mahomet  has 
borrowed  from  the  Jews  the  idea  of  absolute  govern- 
ment, and  from  the  pastoral  or  Sabian  religions  the 
progressive  movement  which  created  the  brilliant 
empire  of  the  califs.  His  destiny  was  written  in  his 
very  birth;  he  had  for  father  a  pagan,  and  for  mother 
a  Jewess.  Ah!  to  be  a  great  musician,  my  dear  count, 
it  is  necessary  also  to  be  very  learned.  Without  in- 
struction, no  local  color,  no  ideas  in  the  music.  The 
composer  who  sings  in  order  to  sing  is  an  artisan, 
and  not  an  artist.  This  magnificent  opera  continues 
the  great  work  which  I  had  undertaken.  My  first 
opera  was  named  the  Martyrs,  and  I  must  write  a 
third:  Jerusalem  Delivered.  You  grasp  the  beauty 
of  this  triple  composition  and  its  diverse  resources: 
the  Martyrs,  Mahomet,  Jerusalem, — the  God  of  the 


48  GAMBARA 

West,  that  of  the  East,  and  the  struggle  of  their 
religions  around  a  tomb.  But  let  us  not  speak  of 
my  greatness  forever  lost!  Here  is  the  summary 
of  my  opera: 

"The  first  act,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "offers 
Mahomet,  whom  his  uncle  has  placed  with  Khadijah, 
a  rich  widow,  as  factor;  he  is  amorous  and  ambi- 
tious; driven  out  of  Mecca,  he  takes  flight  to  Medina, 
and  dates  his  era  from  his  flight — The  Hegira. — The 
second  shows  Mahomet  as  prophet,  and  founding 
a  religious  war.  The  third  presents  Mahomet  dis- 
gusted with  everything,  having  exhausted  life,  and 
concealing  the  secret  of  his  death  in  order  to  become 
a  deity, — last  effort  of  human  pride.  You  will  judge 
of  my  manner  of  expressing  by  sounds  a  great 
fact  which  poetry  could  only  render  imperfectly  by 
words." 

Gambara  sat  down  to  the  piano  with  a  self-pos- 
sessed air,  and  his  wife  brought  him  the  voluminous 
papers  of  his  score,  which  he  did  not  open. 

"  The  whole  opera,"  said  he,  "rests  upon  a  bass 
as  upon  a  rich  territory.  Mahomet  must  have  had  a 
majestic  bass  voice,  and  his  first  wife  had  necessa- 
rily a  contralto  voice.  Khadijah  was  aging,  she  was 
twenty  years  of  age.  Attention,  here  is  the  over- 
ture! It  begins — C  major — by  an  andante — three- 
four  time. — Do  you  hear  the  melancholy  of  the  am- 
bitious one  whom  love  does  not  satisfy?  Through 
his  complainings,  by  a  transition  to  the  relative 
time, — E  flat,  allegro,  common  time, — are  heard  the 
cries  of  the  amorous  epileptic,  his  fury,  and  some 


GAMBARA  49 

warlike  motives,  for  the  all-powerful  sabre  of  the 
califs  begins  to  gleam  before  his  eyes.  The  beauties 
of  the  matchless  woman  give  him  the  sentiment  of 
that  plurality  of  love  which  strikes  us  so  much  in  Don 
Giovanni.  Hearing  these  motives,  do  you  not  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  paradise  of  Mahomet?  But  here — 
A  flat  major,  six-eight — is  a  cantabile  capable  of  ex- 
panding the  soul  most  rebellious  to  music:  Khadijah 
has  understood  Mahomet!  Khadijah  announces  to 
the  people  the  interviews  of  the  prophet  with  the 
angel  Gabriel — Maestoso  sostenuto  in  F  minor.  The 
magistrates,  the  priests,  the  power,  and  the  religion, 
that  feel  themselves  attacked  by  the  innovator  as 
Socrates  and  Jesus  Christ  attacked  expiring  and 
outworn  powers  and  religions,  are  pursuing  Maho- 
met, and  are  driving  him  from  Mecca — strette  in 
C  major. — Arrives  my  fine  dominant — G,  common 
time; — Arabia  listens  to  her  prophet,  the  horsemen 
arrive — G  major,  E  flat,  B  flat,  G  minor,  always  com- 
mon time. — The  avalanche  of  men  increases  ! — The 
false  prophet  has  commenced  upon  a  colony  what 
he  is  about  to  do  through  the  world — G,  G. — He 
promises  to  the  Arabs  universal  domination,  he  is 
believed,  because  he  is  inspired.  The  crescendo  be- 
gins— by  this  same  dominant. — Here  are  some  flour- 
ishes— in  C  major — of  the  brass  instruments,  laid 
upon  the  harmony,  which  separate  and  advance  into 
the  light  to  express  the  first  triumphs.  Medina  is 
conquered  for  the  prophet,  and  they  march  upon 
Mecca — outburst  in  C  major. — The  powers  of  the  or- 
chestra develop  like  a  conflagration,  every  instrument 
4 


50  GAMBARA 

speaks,  here  are  torrents  of  harmony.  Suddenly 
the  tutti  is  interrupted  by  a  graceful  motive — a 
minor  third. — Listen  to  the  last  cantilena  of  de- 
voted love!  The  woman  who  has  sustained  the 
great  man  dies  concealing  from  him  her  despair,  she 
dies  in  the  triumph  of  him  with  whom  love  has  be- 
come too  vast  to  remain  with  a  woman,  she  adores 
him  sufficiently  to  sacrifice  herself  to  the  greatness 
which  kills  her!  What  fire  of  love!  Here  is  the 
desert  which  invades  the  world — the  C  major  re- 
sumes.— The  forces  of  the  orchestra  return  and 
reunite  in  a  terrible  fifth  part  of  the  fundamental 
bass  which  expires,  Mahomet  grows  weary,  he  has 
exhausted  all.  Behold  him  who  wished  to  die  a 
god  !  Arabia  adores  him  and  prays,  we  fall  back 
into  my  first  theme  of  melancholy — in  C  minor — at 
the  rise  of  the  curtain. — Do  you  not  find,"  said 
Gambara,  ceasing  to  play  and  turning  toward  the 
count,  "  in  this  music,  quick,  opposed,  capricious, 
melancholy,  and  always  great,  the  expression  of  the 
life  of  an  epileptic,  mad  with  pleasure,  neither  able 
to  read  nor  write,  making  of  each  of  his  faults  a  step 
for  the  footstool  of  his  greatness,  turning  his  faults 
and  his  misfortunes  into  triumphs?  Have  you  not 
had  the  idea  of  his  seductive  power  over  a  greedy 
and  amorous  people,  in  this  overture,  a  specimen  of 
the  opera?" 

At  first,  calm  and  severe,  the  countenance  of  the 
maestro,  in  which  Andrea  had  sought  to  divine  the 
ideas  which  he  expressed  with  an  inspired  voice,  of 
which  an  undigested  amalgam  of  sounds  only  afforded 


GAMBARA  5 1 

a  slight  idea,  became  animated  by  degrees,  and  finally 
assumed  an  impassioned  expression  which  reacted 
upon  Marianna  and  upon  the  cook.  Marianna,  too 
much  affected  by  the  passages  in  which  she  recog- 
nized her  own  situation,  had  not  been  able  to  conceal 
the  expression  of  her  regard  from  Andrea.  Gambara 
wiped  his  forehead  and  darted  his  glance  with  such 
force  toward  the  ceiling  that  he  seemed  to  pierce  it 
and  ascend  to  the  skies. 

"  You  have  seen  the  peristyle,"  said  he;  "  now  we 
enter  into  the  palace.  The  opera  commences.  ACT 
FIRST.  Mahomet,  alone,  on  the  front  of  the  stage, 
begins  an  air — F  natural,  common  time — interrupted 
by  a  chorus  of  camel-drivers  who  are  near  a  well  at 
the  back  of  the  stage — they  create  a  clashing  in  the 
rhythm;  twelve-eight. — What  majestic  woe!  It  will 
touch  the  giddiest  women,  penetrating  their  bowels, 
if  they  have  no  heart.  Is  it  not  the  melody  of  genius 
restrained?" 

To  the  great  astonishment  of  Andrea,  for  Marianna 
was  accustomed  to  it,  Gambara  contracted  his  throat 
so  violently,  that  only  choking  sounds  proceeded  from 
it,  very  similar  to  those  emitted  by  a  hoarse  watch- 
dog. The  light  foam  which  now  whitened  the  lips 
of  the  composer  made  Andrea  shudder. 

"His  wife  arrives — A  minor. — What  a  magnifi- 
cent duet!  In  this  piece  I  express  how  Mahomet 
has  the  will,  how  his  wife  has  the  intelligence. 
Khadijah  therein  declares  that  she  is  about  to  devote 
herself  to  a  work  which  will  deprive  her  of  the  love 
of  her  young  husband.  Mahomet  desires  to  conquer 


52  GAMBARA 

the  world,  his  wife  has  divined  it,  she  has  seconded 
him  by  persuading  the  people  of  Mecca  that  her  hus- 
band's epileptic  attacks  are  the  consequence  of  his 
intercourse  with  the  angels.  Chorus  of  Mahomet's 
first  disciples,  who  come  to  promise  him  their  aid — 
C  sharp  minor,  sotto  voce. — Mahomet  leaves  to  visit 
the  angel  Gabriel — recitative  in  F  major. — His  wife 
encourages  the  chorus — air  interrupted  by  the  accom- 
paniments of  the  chorus.  Bursts  of  voices  sustain  the 
grand  and  majestic  singing  of  Khadijah.  A  major. — 
ABDALLAH,  the  father  of  Ayesha,  the  only  maiden 
whom  Mahomet  has  found  a  virgin  and  whose  name 
for  this  reason  the  prophet  changed  to  that  of  ABU- 
BEKR, — father  of  the  virgin, — advances  with  Ayesha 
and  separates  from  the  chorus — by  phrases  which 
govern  the  rest  of  the  voices  and  which  sustain  the 
air  of  Khadijah  in  joining  with  it,  in  counterpoint. — 
Omar,  father  of  Hafsa,  another  maid  whom  Mahomet 
is -to  possess,  imitates  the  example  of  Abu-Bekr,  and 
comes  with  his  daughter  to  form  a  quintet.  The 
virgin  Ayesha  is  a  first  soprano.  Hafsa  sings  the 
second  soprano.  Abu-Bekr  is  a  bass,  Omar  is  a 
barytone.  Mahomet  reappears  inspired.  He  sings 
his  first  bravura  which  commences  the  finale — 
E  major ; — he  promises  the  empire  of  the  world  to 
his  first  believers.  The  prophet  perceives  the  two 
maidens,  and,  by  a  sweet  transition, — from  B  major 
to  G  major, — he  addresses  to  them  amorous  phrases. 
Ali,  cousin  of  Mahomet,  and  Khaled,  his  greatest  gen- 
eral, two  tenors,  arrive  and  announce  the  persecu- 
tion; the  magistrates,  the  soldiers,  the  lords,  have 


GAMBARA  53 

proscribed  the  prophet — Recitative. — Mahomet  cries 
out  in  an  invocation — in  C — that  the  angel  Gabriel 
is  with  him,  and  points  to  a  pigeon  that  is  flying 
away.  The  chorus  of  believers  replies  by  accents  of 
devotion  in  a  modulation — in  B  major. — The  soldiers, 
the  magistrates,  the  great,  arrive — tempo  di  marda; 
common  time  in  B  major. — Struggle  between  the  two 
choruses — strette  in  E  major. — Mahomet — by  a  succes- 
sion of  diminished  sevenths  descending — yields  to  the 
storm  and  takes  flight.  The  dark  and  gloomy  color 
of  this  finale  is  varied  by  the  motives  of  the  three 
women  who  predict  to  Mahomet  his  triumph,  and 
whose  phrases  will  be  found  developed  in  the  third 
act,  in  the  scene  where  Mahomet  tastes  the  delights 
of  his  grandeur." 

At  this  moment,  tears  started  to  the  eyes  of  Gam- 
bara,  who,  after  a  moment  of  emotion,  cried: 

"SECOND  ACT.  Behold  the  established  religion! 
The  Arabs  guard  the  tent  of  their  prophet,  who 
consults  God — cJiorus  in  A  minor. — Mahomet  ap- 
pears— prayer  in  F. — What  brilliant  and  majestic 
harmony  lies  beneath  this  chant,  in  which  I  have, 
perhaps,  enlarged  the  boundaries  of  melody.  Was 
it  not  a  necessity  to  express  the  wonders  of  this 
great  movement  of  men,  which  has  created  a  music, 
an  architecture,  a  poetry,  a  costume,  and  manners? 
On  hearing  it,  you  walk  beneath  the  arcades  of  the 
Generalife,  beneath  the  sculptured  vaults  of  the  Al- 
hambra.  The  embellishments  of  the  air  depict  the 
delicious  Moorish  architecture,  and  the  poetry  of 
that  gallant  and  warlike  religion  which  was  to  oppose 


54  GAMBARA 

the  warlike  and  gallant  chivalry  of  the  Christians. 
Some  of  the  brass  instruments  in  the  orchestra 
awake  and  proclaim  the  first  triumphs — by  a  broken 
cadence. — The  Arabs  adore  the  prophet — E  flat 
major. — Arrival  of  Khaled,  of  Amrou,  and  Ali — by  a 
tempo  di  marcia. — The  armies  of  the  believers  have 
captured  cities  and  reduced  the  three  Arabias!  What 
pompous  recitative!  Mahomet  rewards  his  generals 
by  giving  them  his  daughters. 

"  Here,"  said  Gambara,  with  a  piteous  air,  "  there 
is  one  of  those  ignoble  ballets  which  cut  the  thread 
of  the  finest  musical  tragedies!  But  Mahomet — B 
minor — elevates  the  opera  by  his  grand  prophecy, 
which  commences,  in  that  poor  Monsieur  de  Voltaire, 
with  this  verse: 

" '  The  time  of  Arabia  has,  at  last,  arrived; 

It  is  interrupted  by  the  chorus  of  triumphant  Arabs — 
twelve-eight  accelerated. — The  clarions,  the  brass  in- 
struments, reappear  with  the  tribes,  which  arrive  in 
multitudes.  General  festivity,  in  which  all  the  voices 
in  succession  join,  and  in  which  Mahomet  proclaims 
his  polygamy.  In  the  midst  of  this  glory,  the  wife, 
who  has  served  Mahomet  so  well,  separates  herself 
by  a  magnificent  air — B  major — 'And  I,'  said  she, 
'  I,  should  I  then  be  no  longer  loved  ?' — '  We  must 
separate;  thou  art  a  woman,  and  I  am  a  prophet;  I 
can  have  slaves,  but  no  more  equals.'  Listen  to 
this  duet — G  sharp  minor. — What  anguish!  The  wife 
comprehends  the  greatness  which  she  has  raised 


GAMBARA  5  5 

with  her  hands,  she  loves  Mahomet  sufficiently  to 
sacrifice  herself  for  his  glory;  she  adores  him  as  a 
god,  without  judging  him  and  without  a  murmur. 
Poor  wife!  the  first  dupe  and  the  first  victim!  What 
a  theme  for  the  finale, — B  major, — this  grief  worked 
in  colors  so  dark  at  the  background  of  those  accla- 
mations of  the  chorus,  and  married  to  the  accents  of 
Mahomet  abandoning  his  wife  as  a  useless  instrument, 
yet  letting  it  be  seen  that  he  will  never  forget  her! 
What  triumphant  illuminations!  what  rockets  of  joy- 
ous and  brilliant  song  burst  from  the  two  young  voices 
— -first  and  second  soprano — of  Ayesha  and  Hafsa,  sup- 
ported by  Ali  and  his  wife,  by  Omar  and  Abu-Bekr! 
Weep!  rejoice!  Triumphs  and  tears!  This  is  life." 

Marianna  could  not  repress  her  tears.  Andrea  was 
so  affected  that  his  eyes  became  slightly  moistened. 
The  Neapolitan  cook,  shaken  by  the  magnetic  com- 
munication of  the  ideas  expressed  by  the  spasms  of 
Gambara's  voice,  shared  the  emotion.  The  musi- 
cian turned,  saw  this  group,  and  smiled. 

"At  last  you  understand  me!"  he  cried. 

Never  hero  led  in  pomp  to  the  Capitol,  in  the 
purple  rays  of  his  glory,  amid  the  acclamations  of  a 
whole  people,  had  such  an  expression  when  feeling 
the  crown  placed  upon  his  head.  The  countenance 
of  the  musician  sparkled  like  that  of  a  holy  martyr. 
No  one  disabused  this  error.  A  ghastly  smile  passed 
over  the  lips  of  Marianna.  The  count  was  terrified 
by  the  artlessness  of  this  mania. 

"  THIRD  ACT  !"  said  the  happy  composer,  resuming 
his  seat  at  the  piano — "andantino  solo — Mahomet, 


56  GAMBARA 

unhappy,  in  his  seraglio,  surrounded  by  women. 
Quartet  of  houris — in  A  major. — What  pomp!  What 
songs  of  happy  nightingales!  Modulations — F  sharp 
minor. — The  theme  is  represented — upon  the  dominant 
E  to  return  in  A  major. — The  pleasures  are  grouped, 
and  assume  form,  in  order  to  produce  a  contrast  to 
the  gloomy  finale  of  the  first  act.  After  the  dances, 
Mahomet  rises  and  sings  a  great  bravura  air, — F 
minor, — regretting  the  unique  and  devoted  love  of  his 
first  wife,  confessing  himself  vanquished  by  polyg- 
amy. Never  had  musician  a  like  theme.  The  or- 
chestra and  the  chorus  of  women  express  the  joys  of 
the  houris,  while  Mahomet  returns  to  the  melancholy 
which  opened  the  opera.  Where  is  Beethoven," 
cried  Gambara,  "that  I  may  be  well  understood  in 
this  prodigious  return  of  the  whole  opera  on  itself  ? 
How  all  is  supported  upon  the  bass!  Beethoven 
in  this  very  way  constructed  his  symphony  in  C. 
But  his  heroic  movement  is  purely  instrumental, 
while  here  my  heroic  movement  is  supported  by  a 
sextet  of  the  finest  human  voices,  and  by  a  chorus 
of  the  believers,  who  watch  at  the  DOOR  of  the  holy 
house.  I  have  all  the  riches  of  melody  and  harmony, 
an  orchestra  and  voices. — Hear  the  expression  of  all 
human  existences,  rich  or  poor:  the  struggle,  the  tri- 
umph, and  the  "weariness!  AH  arrives,  the  Koran 
triumphs  on  all  points — duet  in  D  minor. — Mahomet 
confides  in  his  two  fathers-in-law,  he  is  wearied  of 
everything,  he  wishes  to  abdicate  the  power  and  die 
unknown  to  consolidate  his  work.  Magnificent  sex- 
tet— Bflat  major. — He  pronounces  his  adieus — solo  in 


GAMBARA  57 

F  natural. — His  two  fathers-in-law,  constituted  his 
vicars, — califs, — call  the  people.  Grand  triumphal 
march.  General  prayer  of  the  Arabs  on  their  knees 
before  the  holy  house — casba — whence  the  pigeon 
takes  flight — same  key. — The  prayer  made  by  sixty 
voices,  and  led  by  women, — in  B  flat, — crowns  this 
gigantic  work  in  which  the  life  of  nations  and  of  man 
is  expressed.  You  have  had  all  emotions,  human  and 
divine." 

Andrea  contemplated  Gambara  in  stupid  astonish- 
ment. If,  at  first,  he  had  been  shocked  by  the 
horrible  mockery  which  this  man  presented  in  ex- 
pressing the  feelings  of  the  wife  of  Mahomet  with- 
out recognizing  them  in  Marianna,  the  madness  of 
the  husband  was  eclipsed  by  that  of  the  composer. 
There  was  not  the  appearance  of  a  poetical  or 
musical  idea  in  the  stunning  cacophony  which  smote 
the  ears:  the  principles  of  harmony,  the  first  rules 
of  composition,  were  totally  foreign  to  this  shapeless 
creation.  Instead  of  music  learnedly  connected,  which 
Gambara  described,  his  fingers  produced  a  succes- 
sion of  fifths,  sevenths,  octaves,  major  thirds,  and 
steps  from  fourth  without  sixth  to  the  bass,  a  combi- 
nation of  discordant  sounds  thrown  at  hazard  which 
seemed  combined  to  torture  the  least  delicate  ears. 
It  is  difficult  to  describe  this  capricious  execution; 
we  should  require  new  words  for  this  impossible 
music.  Painfully  affected  by  the  mania  of  this 
worthy  man,  Andrea  blushed  and  looked  stealthily 
at  Marianna,  who,  pale  and  with  downcast  eyes, 
could  not  repress  her  tears.  In  the  midst  of  this 


58  GAMBARA 

uproar  of  sounds,  Gambara,  from  time  to  time, 
hurled  exclamations  which  disclosed  the  rapture  of 
his  soul:  he  fainted  with  joy,  he  smiled  at  his 
piano,  looked  at  it  in  anger,  pulled  out  the  tongue 
of  it, — an  expression  in  use  among  the  inspired; 
finally,  he  seemed  intoxicated  with  the  poetry  which 
filled  his  head  and  which  he  had  vainly  endeavored 
to  translate.  The  strange  discords  which  howled 
beneath  his  fingers  had  evidently  resounded  in  his 
ear  as  celestial  harmonies.  Certainly,  to  judge  by 
the  inspired  expression  of  his  blue  eyes  open  upon 
another  world,  by  the  rosy  hue  which  colored  his 
cheeks,  and  especially  by  the  divine  serenity  which 
ecstasy  shed  over  his  proud  and  noble  features,  a 
deaf  person  would  have  supposed  himself  present 
at  an  improvisation  due  to  some  great  artist.  This 
illusion  would  have  been  so  much  the  more  natural, 
as  the  execution  of  this  senseless  music  required  a 
marvellous  skill  to  accommodate  itself  to  such  finger- 
ing. Gambara  must  have  worked  for  several  years. 
Moreover,  his  hands  were  not  alone  employed,  the 
complication  of  the  pedals  imposed  upon  the  whole 
body  perpetual  agitation;  the  sweat,  too,  trickled 
down  his  features,  whilst  he  labored  to  swell  a 
crescendo  with  the  feeble  means  the  ungrateful  in- 
strument placed  at  his  service:  he  stamped,  panted, 
yelled;  his  fingers  equalled  in  rapidity  the  forked 
tongue  of  a  serpent;  finally,  at  the  last  howl  of  the 
piano,  he  threw  himself  backward,  and  let  his  head 
fall  upon  the  back  of  his  armchair. 

"  By  Bacchus,  I  am  completely  stunned !"  cried 


GAMBARA  59 

the  count,  on  leaving;  "  a  child  dancing  on  the  key- 
board would  make  better  music." 

"Assuredly,  chance  could  not  avoid  the  harmony 
of  two  notes  as  skilfully  as  this  devil  of  a  man  has 
done  during  an  hour,"  said  Giardini. 

"  How  is  it  that  the  admirable  regularity  of  Mari- 
anna's  features  is  not  distorted  by  continually  hearing 
these  frightful  discords?"  the  count  asked  himself. 
"Marianna  is  threatened  with  disfiguring  age." 

"Seigneur,  she  must  be  snatched  from  this  dan- 
ger!" cried  Giardini. 

"  Yes,"  said  Andrea,  "  I  have  thought  of  it.  But 
to  ascertain  whether  my  projects  do  not  rest  upon  a 
false  basis,  I  must  support  my  suspicions  upon  an 
experience.  I  will  return  to  examine  the  instru- 
ments which  he  has  invented.  So  to-morrow,  after 
dinner,  we  will  have  a  late  supper,  and  I  myself  will 
send  the  wine  and  the  necessary  dainties." 

The  cook  bowed.  The  following  day  was  em- 
ployed by  the  count  in  directing  the  arrangement  of 
the  rooms  he  intended  for  the  poor  household  of  the 
artist.  In  the  evening,  Andrea  came,  and  found,  ac- 
cording to  his  instructions,  his  wines  and  cakes  taste- 
fully arranged  by  Marianna  and  the  cook;  Gambara 
triumphantly  showed  him  the  little  drums  on  which 
were  the  grains  of  powder  by  whose  aid  he  made 
his  observations  upon  the  different  nature  of  the 
sounds  emitted  by  his  instruments. 

"  See,"  said  he,  "  by  what  simple  means  I  arrive 
at  the  proof  of  a  great  proposition!  Acoustics  thus  re- 
veals to  me  analogous  actions  of  sound  on  all  objects 


60  GAMBARA 

which  it  affects.  All  harmonies  proceed  from  a  com- 
mon centre,  and  preserve  among  themselves  inti- 
mate relations;  or,  rather,  harmony,  one  with  light, 
is  decomposed  by  our  arts,  as  the  ray  by  the  prism." 

Then  he  produced  instruments  constructed  after 
his  laws,  explaining  the  changes  he  introduced  in 
their  contexture.  Finally,  he  declared,  not  without 
emphasis,  that  he  would  crown  this  preliminary 
seance,  sufficient  at  most  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of 
the  eye,  by  letting  us  hear  an  instrument  which 
might  replace  an  entire  orchestra,  and  which  he 
called  a  panharmonicon. 

"If  it  is  the  one  in  this  case  which  brings  on 
us  the  complaints  of  the  neighborhood  when  you 
work  at  it,"  said  Giardini,  "you  will  not  play  it 
long,  the  commissary  of  police  will  soon  come.  Do 
you  think  of  that?" 

"  If  this  poor  fool  remains,"  said  Gambara,  in  the 
ear  of  the  count,  "  it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to 
play." 

The  count  got  the  cook  away  on  promising  him  a 
reward  if  he  would  watch  outside  and  prevent  the 
patrol  and  the  neighbors  from  interfering.  The 
cook,  who  had  not  stinted  himself  in  pouring  out 
for  Gambara,  consented.  Without  being  intoxicated, 
the  composer  was  in  that  condition  in  which  all  the 
intellectual  forces  are  overexcited,  in  which  the  walls 
of  a  room  appear  luminous,  in  which  the  mansards 
no  longer  have  roofs,  in  which  the  soul  flutters  in 
the  world  of  spirits.  Marianna  disengaged  from  its 
covers,  not  without  difficulty,  an  instrument  as  large 


GAMBARA  6 1 

as  a  grand  piano,  but  having,  in  addition,  an  upper 
case.  This  odd-looking  instrument  offered,  besides 
this  case  and  its  table,  the  bells  of  wind-instruments, 
and  the  pointed  beaks  of  organ-pipes. 

"  Play  for  me,  I  beg  of  you,  that  prayer  that  you 
said  was  so  fine,  and  which  terminates  your  opera," 
said  the  count. 

To  the  great  astonishment  of  Marianna  and  An- 
drea, Gambara  commenced  with  several  chords, 
which  revealed  the  great  master;  at  first,  admiration 
mingled  with  surprise  followed  their  astonishment, 
then  perfect  ecstasy,  in  the  midst  of  which  they 
forgot  both  the  place  and  the  man. 

The  effects  of  an  orchestra  could  not  have  been  so 
grand  as  were  the  sounds  of  the  wind-instruments, 
which  recalled  the  organ,  and  which  blended  mar- 
vellously with  the  harmonic  riches  of  the  stringed 
instruments ;  but  the  imperfect  condition  of  this 
singular  machine  impeded  the  developments  of  the 
composer,  whose  thought  then  appeared  only  greater. 
Frequently,  perfection  in  works  of  art  hinders  the 
soul  from  exalting  them.  Is  it  not  the  case  of  the 
suit  won  by  the  sketch  against  the  finished  picture 
before  the  tribunal  of  those  who  finish  the  work 
by  thought,  instead  of  accepting  it  all  done?  The 
purest  and  sweetest  music  the  count  had  ever  heard 
arose  beneath  the  fingers  of  Gambara  like  a  cloud 
of  incense  above  an  altar. 

The  voice  of  the  composer  recovered  its  freshness 
and  youth,  and,  far  from  injuring  this  rich  melody, 
explained,  strengthened,  and  directed  it,  as  the  low 


62  GAMBARA 

and  tremulous  voice  of  a  skilful  reader,  such  as  An- 
drieux,  expands  the  sense  of  a  sublime  scene  from 
Corneille  or  from  Racine  by  adding  thereto  an  in- 
nate poetry.  This  music  worthy  of  the  angels 
disclosed  the  treasures  hidden  in  that  immense 
opera,  which  could  never  be  understood  so  long  as 
this, man  persisted  in  explaining  it  in  his  moments 
of  reason.  Equally  divided  between  the  music  and 
the  surprise  which  that  hundred-voiced  instrument 
caused  them,  in  which  a  stranger  would  have  be- 
lieved that  the  maker  had  concealed  invisible  young 
girls,  so  much  did  the  sounds  resemble  at  times 
the  human  voice,  the  count  and  Marianna  dared  not 
communicate  their  ideas  to  each  other,  either  by 
look  or  word.  The  countenance  of  Marianna  was 
illumined  by  a  magnificent  gleam  of  hope,  which 
restored  to  her  the  splendors  of  youth.  This  re- 
newal of  her  beauty,  which  united  with  the  lumi- 
nous apparition  of  her  husband's  genius,  shadowed 
with  a  cloud  of  disappointment  the  delight  which 
that  mysterious  hour  gave  to  the  count. 

"You  are  our  good  genius,"  said  Marianna.  "  I  am 
tempted  to  believe  that  you  inspire  him,  for  I,  who  do 
not  leave  him,  have  never  heard  anything  similar." 

"And  the  adieus  of  Khadijah!"  cried  Gambara, 
who  sang  the  cavatina  to  which  he  had  given,  the 
evening  before,  the  epithet  of  sublime,  and  which 
made  the  two  lovers  weep,  so  well  it  expressed  the 
most  elevated  devotion  of  love. 

"Who  could  have  dictated  to  you  such  chants?" 
demanded  the  count. 


GAMBARA  63 

"The  Spirit,"  replied  Gambara;  "when  he  ap- 
pears, everything  seems  to  me  on  fire.  I  see  melo- 
dies face  to  face,  beautiful  and  fresh,  colored  like 
flowers;  they  radiate,  they  resound,  and  I  listen,  but 
an  infinite  time  is  required  to  reproduce  them." 

"  Encore!"  said  Marianna. 

Gambara,  who  experienced  no  weariness,  played 
without  effort  or  grimace.  He  executed  his  overture 
with  so  great  talent,  and  disclosed  musical  riches 
so  new,  that  the  count,  dazzled,  finally  believed  in 
magic  like  that  which  Paganini  and  Liszt  exerted, — 
an  execution  which  certainly  changes  all  the  con- 
ditions of  music  in  making  a  poetry  above  musical 
creations. 

"  Well!  will  Your  Excellency  cure  him?"  demanded 
the  cook  as  Andrea  descended. 

"  1  shall  soon  know,"  answered  the  count.  "  The 
intelligence  of  this  man  has  two  windows:  one  closed 
upon  the  world,  the  other  open  toward  heaven;  the 
first  is  music;  the  second,  poetry;  until  to-day,  he  has 
obstinately  persisted  in  remaining  before  the  closed 
window,  he  must  be  led  to  the  other.  You  are  the 
first  to  put  me  on  the  way,  Giardini,  by  telling  me 
that  your  guest  reasons  better  after  having  drunk  a 
few  glasses  of  wine." 

"  Yes,"  cried  the  cook,  "  and  I  guess  Your  Excel- 
lency's plan." 

"  If  there  is  still  time  to  thunder  poetry  in  his 
ears,  in  the  midst  of  the  harmonies  of  beautiful 
music,  we  must  put  him  in  condition  to  hear  and 
judge.  Now,  intoxication  alone  can  aid  me.  Will 


64  GAMBARA 

you  help  me  to  make  Gambara  drunk,  my  friend? 
Will  not  that  do  some  injury  to  yourself?" 

"What  means  Your  Excellency?" 

Andrea  left  hurriedly  without  replying,  but  laugh- 
ing at  the  perspicacity  that  remained  to  this  fool. 
On  the  following  day,  he  came  to  see  Marianna, 
who  had  passed  the  whole  morning  in  completing  a 
simple  but  becoming  toilet,  which  had  devoured  all 
her  savings.  This  change  might  have  dissipated 
the  illusion  of  a  blase  man,  but,  with  the  count,  ca- 
price had  become  passion.  Divested  of  her  poetic 
misery,  and  transformed  into  a  simple  bourgeoise, 
Marianna  caused  him  to  dream  of  marriage.  He 
gave  her  his  hand  on  entering  a  coach,  and  com- 
municated to  her  his  project.  She  approved  of  all, 
happy  to  find  her  lover  still  greater,  more  gener- 
ous, more  disinterested,  than  she  had  hoped.  She 
reached  an  apartment  in  which  Andrea  had  taken 
pleasure  in  recalling  his  memory  to  his  friend  by 
some  of  those  refinements  which  lead  astray  the 
most  virtuous  women. 

"I  shall  only  speak  to  you  of  my  love  at  the 
moment  when  you  despair  of  your  Paul,"  said  the 
count  to  Marianna,  on  returning  to  Rue  Froidman- 
teau.  "  You  shall  be  witness  of  the  sincerity  of 
my  efforts;  if  they  are  efficacious,  perhaps  1  shall 
not  be  able  to  resign  myself  to  my  part  of  friend, 
but  then  I  shall  avoid  you,  Marianna.  Although  I 
feel  sufficiently  courageous  to  work  for  your  happi- 
ness, I  shall  not  have  sufficient  strength  to  contem- 
plate it." 


GAMBARA  65 

"  Do  not  speak  thus,  generosity  also  has  its 
peril,"  she  replied,  with  difficulty  restraining  her 
tears.  "But  what!  you  are  leaving  me  already?" 

"Yes,"  said  Andrea,  "  be  happy  without  distrac- 
tion." 


If  we  must  believe  the  cook,  the  change  of  hygiene 
was  favorable  to  the  married  couple.  Every  evening 
after  drinking,  Gambara  appeared  less  absorbed,  con- 
versed more  and  more  sedately;  finally,  he  spoke 
of  reading  the  newspapers.  Andrea  could  not  help 
trembling,  observing  the  unexpected  rapidity  of  his 
success;  but,  although  his  anguish  revealed  to  him 
the  strength  of  his  love,  it  did  not  cause  him  to  falter 
in  his  virtuous  resolution.  He  called  one  day  to  ob- 
serve the  progress  of  this  remarkable  cure.  If  the 
condition  of  his  patient  at  first  gave  him  joy,  it  was 
troubled  by  the  beauty  of  Marianna,  to  which  ease 
had  restored  all  its  splendor.  From  that  time,  he 
returned  every  evening  to  engage  in  sweet  and 
serious  conversation,  to  which  he  brought  the  light 
of  temperate  opposition  to  the  singular  theories  of 
Gambara.  He  profited  by  the  marvellous  lucidity 
which  the  mind  of  the  latter  enjoyed  upon  all  points 
which  did  not  border  too  closely  on  his  mania  to 
cause  him  to  admit  principles  of  various  branches  of 
art  equally  applicable,  later,  to  music.  All  went  well 
so  long  as  the  fumes  of  the  wine  affected  the  head 
of  the  patient;  but  as  soon  as  he  had  completely 
recovered,  or  rather  lost  his  reason  again,  he  re- 
lapsed into  his  mania.  Nevertheless,  Paolo  allowed 
himself  already  to  be  more  easily  entertained  by  the 
(67) 


68  GAMBARA 

impression  of  external  objects,  and  already  his  in- 
telligence comprehended  a  greater  number  of  points 
at  a  time.  Andrea,  who  took  an  artist's  interest 
in  this  semi-medical  work,  finally  believed  he  could 
strike  a  decisive  blow.  He  resolved  to  give  at  his 
hotel  a  repast  to  which  Giardini  should  be  admitted, 
from  the  fancy  he  had,  not  to  separate  the  drama 
and  parody,  on  the  day  of  the  first  performance  of 
the  opera  of  Robert  le  Diable,  at  whose  rehearsal  he 
had  been  present,  and  which  appeared  to  him  cal- 
culated to  open  the  eyes  of  his  patient.  After  the 
second  course,  Gambara,  already  intoxicated,  jested 
with  much  grace,  and  Giardini  confessed  that  his  culi- 
nary innovations  were  not  worth  the  devil.  Andrea 
had  neglected  nothing  to  perform  this  double  mira- 
cle. The  Orvieto,  the  Montefiascone,  brought  with 
the  infinite  precautions  which  their  transportation 
requires,  the  Lachrymse-Christi,  the  Giro,  all  the 
strong  wines  of  the  cara  patria,  caused  the  double  in- 
toxication of  the  vine  and  memory  to  ascend  to  the 
brains  of  the  guests.  At  the  dessert,  the  musician  and 
the  cook  gayly  renounced  their  errors;  one  hummed 
a  cavatina  from  Rossini,  the  other  heaped  upon  his 
plate  morsels  which  he  sprinkled  with  maraschino 
from  Zara,  in  honor  of  the  French  cooking. 

The  count  profited  by  the  happy  disposition  of 
Gambara,  who  allowed  himself  to  be  led  to  the 
opera  with  the  gentleness  of  a  lamb.  At  the  first 
notes  of  the  introduction,  the  intoxication  of  Gam- 
bara seemed  to  dissipate,  to  give  place  to  that  febrile 
excitation  which,  at  times,  placed  his  judgment  in 


GAMBARA  69 

harmony  with  his  imagination,  whose  habitual  dis- 
cord, no  doubt,  caused  his  mania,  and  the  dominant 
idea  of  this  great  musical  drama  appeared  to  him  in 
its  splendid  simplicity  like  a  lightning-flash  which  fur- 
rowed the  profound  darkness  in  which  he  lived.  To 
his  unsealed  eyes,  this  music  described  the  immense 
horizons  of  a  world  in  which  he  found  himself  thrown 
for  the  first  time,  recognizing  therein  accidents  al- 
ready seen  in  dreams.  He  believed  himself  trans- 
lated to  the  plains  of  his  country,  where  the  beautiful 
Italy  begins,  which  Napoleon  so  judiciously  named 
the  glacis  of  the  Alps.  Carried  back  by  memory 
to  the  time  when  his  young  and  active  reason  had 
not  yet  been  troubled  by  the  ecstasy  of  his  overrich 
imagination,  he  listened  in  a  religious  attitude,  and 
without  desiring  to  utter  a  single  word.  The  count 
also  respected  the  interior  labor  which  was  being  ac- 
complished within  this  soul.  Until  half-past  twelve, 
Gambara  remained  so  profoundly  immovable  that  the 
frequenters  of  the  opera  must  have  taken  him  for 
what  he  was,  a  drunken  man.  On  returning,  Andrea 
began  to  attack  the  work  of  Meyerbeer,  in  order  to 
arouse  Gambara,  who  remained  plunged  in  one  of 
those  semi-sleeps  common  to  drinkers. 

"  What  is  there,  then,  so  magnetic  in  this  incohe- 
rent score  that  it  should  put  you  in  the  condition  of 
a  somnambulist?"  said  Andrea,  on  arriving  at  his 
hotel.  "  The  subject  of  Robert  le  Diable  is  doubtless 
far  from  being  devoid  of  interest.  Holtei  has  devel- 
oped it  with  rare  felicity  in  a  very  well  written  drama, 
filled  with  powerful  and  interesting  situations;  but 


70  GAMBARA 

the  French  authors  have  managed  to  draw  from  it  the 
most  ridiculous  story  in  the  world.  The  absurdity 
of  the  librettos  of  Vesari  and  Schikaneder  never 
equalled  that  of  the  poem  of  Robert  le  Diable,  a  real 
dramatic  nightmare,  which  oppresses  the  spectator 
without  giving  rise  to  any  strong  emotions.  Meyer- 
beer has  given  the  devil  too  fine  a  part.  Bertram 
and  Alice  represent  the  struggle  of  good  and  evil, 
the  good  and  the  bad  principles.  This  antagonism 
offered  the  composer  the  most  favorable  contrast. 
The  sweetest  melodies  placed  beside  harsh  and 
heavy  strains  were  a  natural  consequence  of  the 
form  of  the  libretto;  but,  in  the  score  of  the  German 
author,  the  demons  sing  better  than  the  saints.  The 
heavenly  inspirations  often  contradict  their  origin, 
and  if  the  composer  leaves  for  a  moment  the  in- 
fernal forms,  he  hastens  to  return  to  them,  soon 
fatigued  by  the  effort  he  has  made  to  abandon 
them.  The  melody,  that  golden  thread  which 
should  never  be  broken  in  so  vast  a  composition, 
frequently  disappears  in  the  work  of  Meyerbeer. 
The  sentiment  is  good  for  nothing,  the  heart  plays 
no  part  there;  moreover,  we  never  meet  with  those 
happy  themes,  with  those  ingenuous  strains,  which 
stir  all  our  sympathies  and  leave  at  the  bottom  of 
the  soul  a  sweet  impression.  Harmony  reigns  sov- 
ereignly instead  of  forming  the  background,  from 
which  the  groups  of  the  musical  picture  stand 
forth.  These  discords,  far  from  moving  the  hearer, 
merely  excite  in  his  soul  a  feeling  analogous  to  that 
we  should  experience  at  the  sight  of  a  mountebank 


GAMBARA  71 

suspended  by  a  thread,  and  balancing  himself  be- 
tween life  and  death.  No  gracious  song  ever  comes 
to  soothe  these  fatiguing  irritations.  We  should 
suppose  that  the  composer  had  no  other  object  in 
view  than  to  show  himself  capricious,  fantastic; 
he  seizes  with  eagerness  the  opportunity  of  pro- 
ducing an  odd  effect,  without  concerning  himself 
about  truth,  musical  unity,  or  the  incapacity  of 
voices  overwhelmed  beneath  this  instrumental  ava- 
lanche—" 

"  Silence,  my  friend,"  said  Gambara;  "  I  am  still 
under  the  charm  of  that  admirable  song  of  the  infer- 
nal regions,  which  the  trumpets  render  still  more 
terrible, — a  novel  instrumentation.  The  broken  ca- 
dences which  give  so  much  energy  to  Robert's  song, 
the  cavatina  of  the  fourth  act,  the  finale  of  the  first, 
still  hold  me  under  the  fascination  of  a  supernatural 
power!  No,  the  declamation  of  Cluck  himself  never 
produced  so  prodigious  an  effect,  and  I  am  amazed  at 
so  much  science." 

"Signor  maestro,"  replied  Andrea,  smiling,  "per- 
mit me  to  contradict  you.  Gluck,  before  writing, 
reflected  a  long  time.  He  calculated  all  the  chances, 
and  arranged  a  plan  which  could  be  modified  later  by 
his  inspirations  in  respect  of  detail,  but  which  never 
permitted  him  to  go  astray  on  the  road.  Hence 
that  energetic  accentuation,  that  declamation  throb- 
bing with  truth.  I  agree  with  you,  that  the  science 
is  great  in  Meyerbeer's  opera,  but  this  science  be- 
comes a  defect  when  it  isolates  itself  from  inspi- 
ration, and  I  believe  I  have  perceived  in  this  work 


72  GAMBARA 

the  painful  labor  of  an  acute  mind,  which  has  culled 
its  music  from  thousands  of  motives  of  unsuccessful 
or  forgotten  operas,  in  order  to  appropriate  them  in 
expanding,  modifying,  or  concentrating  them.  But 
that  has  happened  which  happens  to  all  makers  of 
centos,  the  abuse  of  good  things.  This  clever  gleaner 
of  notes  lavishes  discords  which,  being  too  frequent, 
end  in  wounding  the  ear  and  in  accustoming  it  to 
those  great  effects  which  the  composer  should  hus- 
band with  care,  in  order  to  derive  greater  profit 
from  them  when  the  situation  demands  them.  Those 
enharmonic  transitions  are  repeated  to  satiety,  and 
the  abuse  of  the  plagal  cadence  deprives  it  of  a  great 
part  of  its  religious  solemnity.  I  am  well  aware  that 
every  composer  has  his  peculiar  forms  to  which  he 
returns  in  spite  of  himself,  but  it  is  essential  to  watch 
over  one's  self  and  to  avoid  this  defect.  A  picture 
whose  coloring  should  offer  only  blue  or  red  would 
be  far  from  truth  and  would  fatigue  the  sight.  So 
the  rhythm,  almost  always  the  same  in  the  score  of 
Robert,  casts  a  monotony  over  the  ensemble  of  the 
work.  As  to  the  effect  of  the  trumpets  of  which  you 
speak,  it  has  long  been  known  in  Germany,  and  what 
Meyerbeer  gives  us  for  new  was  always  employed 
by  Mozart,  who  made  the  chorus  of  devils  in  Don 
Giovanni  sing  in  this  way." 

Andrea,  while  inducing  him  to  fresh  libations,  en- 
deavored to  restore  Gambara,  by  his  contradictions, 
to  the  true  musical  sentiment,  in  showing  him  that 
his  pretended  mission  in  the  world  did  not  consist 
in  regenerating  an  art  beyond  his  faculties,  but  in 


GAMBARA  73 

seeking,  under  another  form,  which  was  no  other 
than  poetry,  the  expression  of  his  thought. 

"  You  have  understood  nothing,  dear  count,  of 
this  immense  musical  drama,"  said  Gambara,  negli- 
gently, and  placing  himself  before  Andrea's  piano,  he 
struck  the  keys,  listened  to  their  sound,  sat  down, 
and  appeared  to  think  for  a  few  moments  as  if  to 
resume  his  own  ideas.  "And  know  first,"  he  re- 
sumed, "that  an  intelligent  ear  like  mine  has  recog- 
nized the  labor  of  the  setter  of  whom  you  speak. 
Yes,  this  music  is  chosen  with  love  from  among  the 
treasures  of  a  rich  and  fertile  imagination,  in  which 
science  has  pressed  the  ideas  to  extract  their  musical 
essence.  I  will  explain  this  labor  to  you." 

He  rose  to  put  the  tapers  in  the  adjoining  apart- 
ment, and,  before  resuming  his  seat,  he  drank  a  full 
glass  of  Giro,  a  wine  of  Sardinia  that  contains  as 
much  fire  as  the  old  wines  of  Tokay  ever  kindled. 

"Do  you  see,"  said  Gambara,  "this  music  is 
made  neither  for  the  incredulous  nor  for  those  who 
do  not  love.  If  you  have  never  experienced  in  your 
life  the  persistent  attacks  of  an  evil  spirit  that  dis- 
turbs your  object  when  you  aim  at  it,  that  procures 
a  sorrowful  termination  for  your  fairest  hopes;  in  a 
word,  if  you  have  never  perceived  the  devil's  tail 
wriggling  in  this  world,  the  opera  of  Robert  will  be 
for  you  what  the  Apocalypse  is  for  those  who  believe 
that  all  ends  with  themselves.  If,  unfortunate  and 
persecuted,  you  understand  the  Genius  of  Evil,  that 
great  ape  that  every  moment  destroys  the  work  of 
God;  if  you  imagine  him  not  having  loved,  but 


74  GAMBARA 

having  violated  an  almost  divine  woman,  and  ob- 
taining from  this  love  the  joys  of  paternity,  so  far 
as  to  prefer  his  son's  remaining  eternally  miserable 
with  him  to  his  being  eternally  happy  with  God; 
finally,  if  you  imagine  the  soul  of  his  mother  hover- 
ing over  the  head  of  her  son,  in  order  to  rescue  him 
from  the  horrible  paternal  seductions, — you  will  still 
have  but  a  feeble  idea  of  that  immense  poem  which 
needs  but  little  to  rival  the  Don  Giovanni  of  Mozart. 
Don  Giovanni  is  superior  by  its  perfection,  I  grant; 
Robert  le  Diable  represents  ideas,  Don  Giovanni  ex- 
cites sensations.  Don  Giovanni  is,  moreover,  the  only 
musical  work  in  which  harmony  and  melody  are  in 
exact  proportion;  therein  lies  the  secret  of  its  superi- 
ority to  Robert,  for  Robert  is  more  diffusive.  But  of 
what  use  is  this  comparison,  if  these  two  works  are 
beautiful,  each  having  its  own  peculiar  beauties.  As 
to  myself,  who  groan  under  the  repeated  blows  of  the 
demon,  Robert  has  spoken  to  me  more  energetically 
than  to  you,  and  I  have  found  it  at  once  vast  and 
concentrated.  Indeed,  thanks  to  you,  I  have  just 
lived  in  the  beautiful  country  of  dreams,  where  our 
senses  are  enlarged,  where  the  universe  unfolds 
itself  in  gigantic '  proportions  in  relation  to  man." 
There  ensued  a  moment  of  silence.  "  I  thrill  again," 
said  the  unfortunate  artist,  "  at  the  four  measures  of 
the  kettle-drums,  which  have  penetrated  me  to  the 
bowels,  and  which  open  this  short,  this  abrupt  in- 
troduction, in  which  the  trombone  solo,  the  flutes, 
the  hautboy,  and  the  clarinet  cast  into  the  soul 
a  fantastic  color.  That  andante  in  C  minor  affords  a 


GAMBARA  75 

presentiment  of  the  theme  of  the  invocation  of  souls 
in  the  abbey,  and  enlarges  the  stage  by  the  announce- 
ment of  a  struggle  entirely  spiritual. — I  shuddered." 

Gambara  struck  the  keys  with  a  sure  hand,  he 
expanded  masterfully  the  theme  of  Meyerbeer  by 
a  sort  of  discharge  of  the  soul,  after  the  manner  of 
Liszt.  It  was  no  longer  a  piano,  it  was  the  whole 
orchestra,  the  genius  of  music  evoked. 

"That  is  the  style  of  Mozart!"  he  cried.  "See 
how  this  German  manages  the  chords,  and  by  what 
learned  modulations  he  makes  terror  march,  to  ar- 
rive at  the  dominant  of  C.  I  hear  hell. — The  curtain 
rises.  What  do  I  see?  The  only  spectacle  to  which 
we  give  the  name  infernal,  an  orgy  of  knights,  in 
Sicily.  Behold,  in  this  chorus  in  F,  all  human  pas- 
sions let  loose  by  a  bacchic  allegro.  All  the  threads 
by  which  the  devil  leads  us  are  in  motion.  This  is, 
indeed,  the  sort  of  joy  which  seizes  men  when  they 
dance  upon  an  abyss,  they  give  themselves  vertigo. 
What  animation  in  this  chorus!  From  this  chorus,  the 
reality  of  life,  artless  and  homely  life,  is  detached  in 
G  minor  by  a  melody  full  of  simplicity,  that  of  Raim- 
baut.  He  refreshed  my  soul  for  a  moment,  this  good 
man  who  describes  the  green  and  fertile  Normandy, 
coming  to  recall  it  to  Robert  in  the  midst  of  intoxi- 
cation. Thus  the  sweetness  of  the  beloved  country 
colors  with  a  brilliant  thread  this  dark  debut.  Then 
follows  that  marvellous  ballad  in  C  major,  accom- 
panied by  the  chorus  in  C  minor,  and  which  tells  its 
subject  so  well. — /  am  Robert!  bursts  forth  imme- 
diately. The  fury  of  the  prince  offended  by  his 


76  GAMBARA 

vassal  is  no  longer  a  natural  fury;  but  it  is  about  to 
be  calmed,  for  memories  of  childhood  arrive  with 
Alice  by  that  allegro  in  A  major  full  of  animation  and 
grace.  Do  you  hear  the  cries  of  persecuted  inno- 
cence as  it  enters  this  infernal  drama? — No!  no!" 
sang  Gambara,  who  was  able  to  make  his  breath- 
ing piano  sing.  "  His  native  land  and  its  emo- 
tions are  come!  childhood  and  its  memories  have 
bloomed  again  in  the  heart  of  Robert;  but  behold 
the  shade  of  the  mother,  which  rises  accompanied 
with  sweet  religious  thoughts!  Religion  animates 
this  fine  romance  in  E  major,  in  which  is  found  a 
marvellous  harmonic  and  melodic  progression  upon 
the  words: 

" '  For  in  the  heavens,  as  on  the  earth, 
His  mother  will  pray  for  him.' 

"  The  struggle  commences  between  the  unknown 
powers  and  the  only  man  who  has  in  his  veins  the 
fire  of  hell  to  resist  them.  And  that  you  may  know 
him  well,  mark  the  entrance  of  Bertram,  with  which 
the  great  musician  has  covered  as  a  ritornelle  for  the 
orchestra  a  recall  of  the  ballad  of  Raimbaut.  What 
art!  What  connection  of  all  the  parts,  what  power 
of  construction!  The  devil  is  beneath,  he  conceals 
himself,  he  wriggles.  With  the  terror  of  Alice,  who 
recognizes  the  devil  of  the  Saint-Michel  of  her  vil- 
lage, the  combat  of  the  two  principles  is  put  down. 
The  musical  theme  is  about  to  develop,  and  by  what 
varied  phrases!  Here  the  antagonism  necessary  to 


GAMBARA  77 

every  opera  is  forcibly  illustrated  by  a  fine  recita- 
tive, such  as  Cluck  wrote,  between  Bertram  and 
Robert : 

"  '  Thou  wilt  never  know  to  what  excess  I  lovethee.' 

"This  diabolic  C minor,  this  terrible  bass  of  Ber- 
tram, begins  its  undermining  game,  which  will  frus- 
trate all  the  efforts  of  this  violent-tempered  man.  For 
me,  that  is  all  frightful.  Will  crime  have  the  crimi- 
nal? will  the  executioner  have  his  prey?  Will  mis- 
fortune devour  the  genius  of  the  artist?  Will  disease 
kill  the  patient?  Will  the  guardian  angel  preserve 
the  Christian ?  Here  is  the  finale,  the  gambling  scene 
in  which  Bertram  torments  his  son  by  causing  him 
the  most  terrible  emotions.  Robert,  stripped,  angry, 
destroying  everything,  wishing  to  kill  all,  to  put  all 
to  fire  and  sword,  seems  to  be  his  son  indeed,  he  is 
here  so  like  him.  What  atrocious  gayety  in  the  / 
laugh  at  thy  blows  of  Bertram!  How  well  the  Vene- 
tian barcarolle  tints  this  finale!  By  what  bold  transi- 
tions this  nefarious  paternity  returns  to  the  stage  to 
lead  Robert  back  to  the  game.  This  debut  is  over- 
whelming for  those  who  develop  the  themes  at  the 
bottom  of  the  heart,  giving  them  the  expansion  which 
the  composer  has  commanded  them  to  communicate. 
There  was  only  love  to  oppose  to  this  great  sym- 
phony, in  which  you  detect  neither  monotony  nor 
the  employment  of  the  same  means:  it  is  one  and  yet 
varied, — the  characteristic  of  all  that  is  grand  and 
natural.  1  breathe,  I  arrive  at  the  elevated  sphere 


78  GAMBARA 

of  a  gallant  court ;  I  hear  the  pretty  phrases,  fresh 
and  slightly  melancholy,  of  Isabelle,  and  the  chorus 
of  women  in  two  parties  and  in  a  repetition  which 
savors  a  little  of  the  Moorish  tints  of  Spain. 

"At  this  point,  the  terrible  music  subsides  into 
gentle  strains,  as  a  tempest  abates,  to  arrive  at  that 
flowery,  coquettish,  well-modulated  duet  which  re- 
sembles nothing  in  the  preceding  music.  After  the 
tumult  of  the  camp,  and  of  the  adventure-seeking 
heroes,  comes  the  picture  of  love.  Thanks,  poet! 
My  heart  could  not  have  resisted  longer.  If  I  were 
not  culling  the  daisies  of  a  French  comic  opera,  if  I 
were  not  hearing  the  sweet  humor  of  the  woman 
who  can  love  and  console,  I  could  not  endure  that 
terrible  heavy  note  on  which  Bertram  appears,  re- 
plying to  his  son  If  I  permit  it!  when  he  promises  to 
his  adored  princess  to  triumph  with  the  arms  that 
she  gives  him.  To  the  hope  of  the  gambler,  reformed 
by  love,  the  love  of  the  most  beautiful  woman, — for 
have  you  not  seen  her,  that  ravishing  Sicilian,  and  her 
falcon  eye  sure  of  its  prey  ? — What  interpreters  the 
music  has  found ! — to  the  hope  of  the  man,  hell  op- 
poses its  own,  by  this  sublime  cry:  To  thee,  Robert  of 
Normandy!  Do  you  not  admire  the  dark  and  pro- 
found horror  impressed  on  those  long  and  beautiful 
notes  written  upon  In  the  neighboring  forest?  There 
are  all  the  enchantments  of  the  Jerusalem  Delivered, 
as  we  recognize  its  chivalry  in  the  chorus  with  its 
Spanish  animation  and  in  the  tempo  di  marcia.  What 
originality  in  this  allegro,  the  modulations  of  the  four 
kettle-drums  harmonized!  —  CD,  CG.  —  How  much 


GAMBARA  79 

grace  in  the  call  to  the  tournament !  The  animation 
of  the  heroic  life  of  the  time  is  all  there,  the  soul 
unites  with  it,  I  read  a  romance  of  chivalry  and  a 
poem.  The  performance  is  ended,  it  seems  that  the 
resources  of  music  are  exhausted,  you  have  heard 
nothing  like  it,  and  yet  all  is  homogeneous.  You 
have  perceived  human  life  in  its  sole  and  unique 
expression:  'Shall  I  be  happy  or  unhappy?'  say 
the  philosophers.  '  Shall  I  be  lost  or  saved  ?'  say  the 
Christians." 

Here  Gambara  rested  on  the  last  note  of  the 
chorus,  he  developed  it  with  a  melancholy  air,  and 
he  arose  to  drink  another  large  glass  of  Giro  wine. 
This  semi-African  liquor  relumed  the  incandescence 
of  his  face,  which  the  impassioned  and  marvellous 
execution  of  Meyerbeer's  opera  had  rendered  slightly 
pale. 

"That  nothing  may  be  wanting  to  this  compo- 
sition," he  resumed,  "the  great  artist  has  gener- 
ously given  us  the  only  comic  duet  that  the  demon 
can  permit,  the  seduction  of  a  poor  troubadour.  He 
has  placed  humor  by  the  side  of  horror,  a  humor 
in  which  the  only  reality  which  appears  in  the  sub- 
lime fancy  of  his  work  is  lost:  the  pure  and  tran- 
quil loves  of  Alice  and  Raimbaut;  their  life  will  be 
troubled  with  anticipated  vengeance;  great  souls 
alone  can  feel  the  nobility  which  animates  these 
comic  airs;  you  do  not  find  there  the  too  abundant 
glitter  of  our  Italian  music,  nor  the  commonplace  of 
the  French  popular  airs.  It  has  something  of  the 
majesty  of  Olympus.  There  is  the  bitter  smile  of  a 


80  GAMBARA 

divinity  opposed  to  the  surprise  of  a  troubadour  don- 
juanized.  Without  this  greatness,  we  should  have 
returned  too  abruptly  to  the  general  tone  of  the 
opera,  impressed  in  this  horrible  rage  in  diminished 
sevenths,  which,  ending  in  an  infernal  waltz,  finally 
sets  us  face  to  face  with  the  demons.  With  what 
vigor  the  couplet  of  Bertram  in  B  minor  is  detached 
from  the  chorus  of  the  infernal  regions  describing 
paternity  mingled  with  those  demoniacal  chants  by 
a  frightful  despair!  What  a  ravishing  transition — 
the  arrival  of  Alice  with  the  ritornelle  in  B  flat!  I 
still  hear  those  songs  of  angelic  freshness;  is  it  not 
the  nightingale  after  the  storm?  The  great  thought 
of  the  whole  is  thus  found  in  the  details,  for  what 
could  be  opposed  to  this  agitation  of  the  demons 
swarming  in  their  hole,  if  not  the  marvellous  air  of 
Alice: 

"'WhenlleftNormandie'? 

"  The  golden  thread  of  the  melody  always  runs' 
through  the  powerful  harmony  as  a  celestial  hope; 
it  embroiders  it,  and  with  what  profound  skill ! 
Never  does  genius  loose  the  science  that  guides  it. 
Here  occurs  the  song  of  Alice  in  B  flat,  and  again 
Connected  with  the  F  sharp,  the  dominant  of  the 
infernal  chorus.  Do  you  hear  the  tremolo  of  the  or- 
chestra? They  demand  Robert  in  the  assembly  of 
the  demons. — Bertram  re-enters  upon  the  stage,  and 
here  is  found  the  culminating  point  of  the  musical 
interest,  a  recitative  comparable  with  the  grandest 


GAMBARA  8 1 

composed  by  the  great  masters,  the  ardent  struggle 
in  E  flat,  in  which  break  forth  the  two  athletes, 
Heaven  and  Hell,  the  one  by  Yes,  thou  knowestme! 
upon  a  diminished  seventh,  the  other  by  his  F  sub- 
lime: Heaven  is  with  me!  Hell  and  the  Cross  are 
face  to  face.  The  threats  of  Bertram  to  Alice  fol- 
low, the  most  violent  pathos  in  the  world,  the  Gen- 
ius of  Evil  displaying  itself  with  complacency  and 
supporting  itself,  as  always,  upon  personal  interest. 
The  arrival  of  Robert,  who  gives  us  the  magnifi- 
cent trio  in  A  flat  without  accompaniment,  opens 
a  first  engagement  between  the  two  rival  forces 
and  man.  See  how  clearly  it  is  introduced,"  said 
Gambara,  intensifying  this  scene  by  an  impassioned 
execution  which  captured  Andrea.  "All  this  ava- 
lanche of  music,  from  the  four-four  time  of  kettle- 
drums, has  rolled  toward  this  combat  of  three  voices. 
The  magic  of  Evil  triumphs!  Alice  takes  flight, 
and  you  hear  the  duet  in  D  between  Bertram  and 
Robert;  the  devil  plunges  his  talons  into  his  heart, 
he  rends  it  in  order  the  better  to  appropriate  it  to 
himself;  he  employs  every  means:  honor,  hope, 
eternal  and  infinite  joys,  he  makes  everything  bril- 
liant to  his  eyes;  he  places  him,  like  Jesus,  upon 
the  pinnacle  of  the  Temple,  and  shows  him  all  the 
joys  of  earth, — the  casket  of  evil;  he  piques  him 
to  the  display  of  courage,  and  the  fine  sentiments  of 
the  man  burst  forth  in  this  cry: 

" '  Of  the  knights  of  my  country, 
Honor  was  always  the  stay !' 


82  GAMBARA 

"At  last,  to  crown  the  work,  here  is  the  theme 
that  opened  the  opera  fatally;  here  it  is,  this  prin- 
cipal song  in  the  magnificent  evocation  of  souls : 

"  '  Nuns  who  repose  beneath  this  cold  stone, 
Hear  ye  me  ? ' 

"  Gloriously  pursued,  the  musical  career  is  glori- 
ously terminated  by  the  allegro  vivace  of  the  bac- 
chanal in  D  minor.  Here  is,  indeed,  the  triumph  of 
Hell !  Roll,  music!  envelop  us  in  thy  redoubled  folds! 
roll  on  and  charm!  The  infernal  powers  have  seized 
their  prey,  they  hold  it,  they  dance.  This  fine 
genius,  destined  to  conquer,  to  reign,  behold  him 
lost!  the  demons  exult,  misery  will  stifle  genius, 
passion  will  destroy  the  knight." 

Here  Gambara  developed  the  bacchanal  on  his 
own  account,  improvising  ingenious  variations,  and 
accompanying  himself  with  a  melodious  voice,  as  if 
to  express  the  inward  sufferings  he  had  experienced. 

"  Do  you  hear  the  heavenly  plaints  of  neglected 
love?"  he  resumed;  "Isabelle  calls  Robert  to  the 
midst  of  the  grand  chorus  of  knights  going  to  the  tour- 
nament, in  which  reappear  the  motives  of  the  second 
act,  in  order  to  make  it  well  understood  that  the 
third  act  is  accomplished  in  a  supernatural  sphere. 
Real  life  is  resumed.  This  chorus  subsides  at  the 
approach  of  the  enchantments  of  hell,  which  Robert 
brings  with  the  talisman;  the  prodigies  of  the  third 
act  are  to  be  continued.  Here  occurs  the  duet  of 
the  viol,  in  which  the  rhythm  indicates  well  the 


GAMBARA  83 

brutality  of  the  desires  of  a  man  who  is  all-power- 
ful; and  in  which  the  princess,  by  her  lamentations, 
essays  to  call  her  lover  back  to  reason.  There  the 
musician  had  placed  himself  in  a  situation  difficult 
to  overcome,  and  he  has  conquered  by  the  most 
delicious  piece  of  the  opera.  What  adorable  melody 
in  the  cavatina  of  Grace  for  thee!  The  women  have 
well  seized  its  meaning,  they  perceived  themselves 
all  constrained  and  spell-bound  on  the  stage. — That 
piece  alone  would  make  the  fortune  of  the  opera, 
for  they  all  thought  they  were  contesting  with  some 
violent  knight.  Never  was  music  so  impassioned 
and  dramatic.  The  whole  world  is  then  let  loose 
against  the  reprobate.  We  might  find  fault  with 
this  finale  for  its  resemblance  to  that  of  Don  Gio- 
vanni; but  there  is  in  the  situation  this  enormous 
difference,  that  in  Isabelle  a  noble  faith  shines  forth, 
a  true  love  which  will  save  Robert;  for  he  disdain- 
fully repels  the  infernal  power  which  is  confided  to 
him,  while  Don  Giovanni  persists  in  his  incredulities. 
This  reproach  is,  moreover,  common  to  all  composers 
who,  since  Mozart,  have  written  finales.  The  finale 
of  Don  Giovanni  is  one  of  those  classic  forms  discov- 
ered for  all  time.  Finally,  all-powerful  religion  rises, 
with  its  voice  that  rules  the  worlds,  that  calls  up  all 
misfortunes  to  console  them,  all  repentances  to  rec- 
oncile them.  The  entire  house  is  affected  by  the 
accents  of  this  chorus : 


Unfortunate  or  guilty, 
Delay  not,  but  hasten  here.' 


84  GAMBARA 

Amid  the  horrible  tumult  of  unrestrained  passions, 
the  holy  voice  might  not  have  been  heard;  but,  in 
this  critical  moment,  the  divine  Catholic  Church 
can  thunder,  she  rises  brilliant  with  light.  Here 
I  was  astonished  to  find,  after  so  many  harmonic 
treasures,  a  new  vein  in  which  the  composer  hit 
upon  the  grand  piece  Glory  to  Providence!  written  in 
the  manner  of  Handel.  Robert  arrives,  distracted, 
rending  the  soul  with  his  Could  I  but  pray ! 

"  Impelled  by  the  decrees  of  hell,  Bertram  pur- 
sues his  son  and  tries  a  last  effort.  Alice  comes 
and  discloses  the  mother;  you  hear  then  the  grand 
trio  toward  which  the  opera  has  progressed:  the  tri- 
umph of  the  soul  over  matter,  of  the  spirit  of  Good 
over  the  spirit  of  Evil.  The  religious  chants  banish 
the  infernal  chants,  happiness  beams  resplendent. 
But  here  the  music  grows  feeble:  I  see  a  cathe- 
dral instead  of  hearing  the  concert  of  the  happy 
angels,  some  divine  prayer  of  delivered  souls  ap- 
plauding the  union  of  Robert  with  Isabelle.  We 
must  not  rest  under  the  weight  of  hell's  enchant- 
ments, we  must  leave  with  hope  in  the  heart.  I, 
a  Catholic  musician,  I  needed  another  prayer  of 
Moses.  I  should  have  liked  to  know  how  Ger- 
many would  have  struggled  against  Italy,  what 
Meyerbeer  would  have  done  to  rival  Rossini.  How- 
ever, in  spite  of  this  slight  defect,  the  author 
may  say  that  after  five  hours  of  such  substantial 
music  a  Parisian  prefers  a  decoration  to  a  musical 
chef-d'oeuvre!  You  have  heard  the  acclamations 
accorded  to  this  work,  it  will  have  five  hundred 


GAMBARA  85 

renderings !  If  the  French  have  understood  this 
music — " 

"It  is  because  it  offers  ideas,"  said  the  count. 

"  No,  it  is  because  it  presents  so  masterfully  the 
picture  of  the  struggles  in  which  so  many  expire, 
and  because  all  individual  existences  may  by  mem- 
ory connect  themselves  with  it.  Thus  I  myself,  an 
unfortunate,  would  have  been  gratified  to  hear  that 
cry  of  the  celestial  voices  of  which  I  have  so  often 
dreamed." 

Gambara  immediately  fell  into  a  musical  ecstasy, 
and  improvised  the  most  melodious  and  the  most 
harmonious  cavatina  that  Andrea  was  ever  to  hear, 
a  divine  strain,  divinely  sung,  whose  theme  had  a 
grace  comparable  to  that  of  the  0  filii  et  filice,  but 
full  of  charms  which  only  the  most  elevated  musi- 
cal genius  could  discover.  The  count  remained  lost 
in  the  deepest  admiration;  the  clouds  dispersed,  the 
blue  sky  began  to  appear,  figures  of  angels  were 
seen,  who  lifted  the  veils  which  concealed  the  sanc- 
tuary; the  light  of  Heaven  fell  in  torrents.  Soon, 
silence  reigned.  The  count,  astonished  at  no  longer 
hearing  anything,  contemplated  Gambara,  who,  with 
eyes  fixed,  and  in  the  attitude  of  the  teriakis,  stam- 
mered the  word  God.  The  count  waited  until  the 
composer  descended  from  the  enchanted  countries, 
into  which  he  had  risen  on  wings  diapered  with 
inspiration,  and  resolved  to  illumine  him  with  the 
light  he  should  bring  from  them. 

"Well!"  said  he,  offering  him  another  full  glass 
and  touching  glasses  with  him,  "you  see  that  this 


86  GAMBARA 

German  has  produced,  according  to  you,  a  sublime 
opera  without  occupying  himself  with  theory,  while 
musicians  who  write  grammars  may,  like  literary 
critics,  be  detestable  composers." 

"  You  do  not  like  my  music,  then?" 

"  1  don't  say  that;  but  if,  instead  of  aiming  to  ex- 
press ideas,  and  if,  instead  of  pushing  to  an  extreme 
the  musical  idea,  which  makes  you  overshoot  the 
mark,  you  would  simply  awaken  in  us  sensations, 
you  would  be  better  understood,  unless,  however, 
you  have  mistaken  your  vocation. — You  are  a  great 
poet." 

"  What!"  exclaimed  Gambara,  "  then  twenty-five 
years  of  study  would  be  useless!  1  should  have  to 
study  the  imperfect  language  of  men,  when  1  hold 
the  key  of  the  celestial  word!  Ah  !  if  you  were  right, 
I  should  die—" 

"You?  no!  You  are  big  and  strong,  you  would 
commence  another  life,  and  1 — I  would  support  you. 
We  should  offer  the  noble  and  rare  alliance  of  a  rich 
man  and  an  artist  who  understand  each  other." 

"Are  you  sincere?"  said  Gambara,  struck  with  a 
sudden  stupor. 

"  1  have  already  told  you,  you  are  more  a  poet 
than  a  musician." 

"  Poet!  poet'  That  is  better  than  nothing.  Tell 
me  the  truth,  which  do  you  prize  more,  Mozart  or 
Homer?" 

"  1  admire  them  equally." 

"  Upon  your  honor?" 

"  Upon  my  honor." 


GAMBARA  87 

"  Hum!  one  word  more.  What  do  you  think  of 
Meyerbeer  and  Byron?" 

"You  have  judged  them  in  thus  bringing  them 
together." 

The  carriage  of  the  count  was  ready,  the  composer 
and  his  noble  physician  rapidly  cleared  the  steps  of 
the  staircase,  and  in  a  few  moments  arrived  in  the 
presence  of  Marianna.  On  entering,  Gambara  threw 
himself  into  his  wife's  arms,  who,  turning  away  her 
head,  retired  a  step;  the  husband,  likewise,  took  a 
step  backward,  and  leaned  upon  the  count. 

"Ah,  monsieur,"  said  Gambara,  in  a  hollow  voice, 
"at  least,  my  mania  should  have  been  left  me." 

Then  his  head  drooped,  and  he  fell. 

"What  have  you  done?  he  is  dead-drunk,"  cried 
Marianna,  casting  upon  the  body  a  look  in  which 
pity  contended  with  disgust. 

The  count,  assisted  by  his  valet,  raised  Gambara, 
who  was  placed  upon  his  bedo  Andrea  went  out, 
his  heart  full  of  a  horrible  joy. 

On  the  following  day,  the  count  allowed  the  usual 
hour  of  his  visit  to  pass;  he  began  to  fear  that  he 
had  been  his  own  dupe,  and  that  he  had  sold,  rather 
dear,  wisdom  and  ease  to  this  poor  household,  whose 
peace  was  forever  troubled. 

Giardini  appeared  at  last,  the  bearer  of  a  message 
from  Marianna.  She  wrote: 

"Come,  the  evil  is  not  so  great  as  you  wished,  cruel  one!" 

"  Excellency,"  said  the  cook,  while  Andrea  was 
making  his  toilet,  "  yesterday  evening,  you  treated 


88  GAMBARA 

us  magnificently;  but  acknowledge  that,  apart  from 
the  wines,  which  were  excellent,  your  steward  did 
not  serve  you  a  dish  worthy  to  figure  upon  the  table 
of  a  true  gourmet.  Neither  will  you  deny,  I  suppose, 
that  the  dish  which  was  served  you  at  my  house, 
on  the  day  you  did  me  the  honor  to  take  a  seat  at  my 
table,  contained  the  quintessence  of  all  those  which 
soiled  your  magnificent  service  yesterday.  I  awoke 
this  morning,  therefore,  thinking  of  the  promise  you 
made  me  of  a  situation  as  head-cook.  I  consider 
myself  now  an  attache  of  your  household." 

"  The  same  idea  occurred  to  me  a  few  days  ago," 
replied  Andrea.  "  I  spoke  of  you  to  the  secretary 
of  the  Austrian  embassy,  and,  in  the  future,  you 
may  cross  the  Alps  whenever  you  please.  I  have  a 
chateau  in  Croatia,  which  I  seldom  visit;  there  you 
will  combine  the  functions  of  porter,  butler,  and 
steward,  at  a  salary  of  six  hundred  francs.  This  will 
also  be  your  wife's  salary,  for  whom  the  remainder 
of  the  service  is  reserved.  You  will  be  able  to  devote 
yourself  to  experiments  in  anima  vili,  that  is  to  say, 
on  the  stomachs  of  my  vassals.  Here  is  a  check 
upon  my  banker  for  the  expenses  of  your  journey." 

Giardini  kissed  the  hand  of  the  count,  according 
to  the  Neapolitan  custom. 

"  Excellency,"  said  he,  "  I  accept  the  check  with- 
out accepting  the  place.  I  should  be  dishonored  by 
abandoning  my  art,  declining  the  judgment  of  the 
finest  gourmets,  who  are  decidedly  in  Paris." 

When  Andrea  appeared  at  Gambara's,  the  latter 
arose  and  advanced  to  meet  him. 


IN  THE   CHAMPS-ELYSEES 


The  married  pair  were  compelled  to  resign  them- 
selves to  -the  necessity  of  employing  their  talents  in 
the  lowest  of  all  spheres.  Both  went  out  in  the  dusk 
of  the  evening  and  wended  their  way  to  the  Champs- 
Ely  sees  to  sing  duets  which  Gambara,  poor  man ! 
accompanied  upon  a  wretched  guitar. 


GAMBARA  89 

"My  generous  friend,"  said  he,  with  the  most 
open  air,  "yesterday  you  abused  the  weakness  of 
my  faculties  to  make  sport  of  me,  or  your  brain  is 
not  more  proof  than  mine  against  the  vapors  native 
to  our  good  wines  of  Latium.  I  will  hold  to  this 

o 

last  supposition,  I  would  rather  doubt  your  stomach 
than  your  heart.  However  it  may  be,  I  renounce 
forever  the  use  of  wine,  whose  abuse  yesterday 
led  me  into  very  culpable  follies.  When  I  think  that 
1  offended — "  He  cast  a  look  of  terror  upon  Mari- 
anna. —  "As  to  the  miserable  opera  which  you  made 
me  hear,  I  have  thought  well  over  it,  it  is  nothing 
but  music  made  by  ordinary  means,  nothing  but 
mountains  of  notes  heaped  up,  verba  et  voces  ;  it  is  the 
lees  of  the  ambrosia  which  I  drink  in  long  draughts 
while  rendering  the  celestial  music  which  I  hear! 
It  is  but  hashed  phrases  whose  origin  I  recognize. 
The  piece  Glory  to  Providence!  resembles  a  little  too 
much  a  piece  of  Handel's;  the  chorus  of  the  knights 
going  to  the  combat  is  a  relative  of  the  Scotch  air  in 
La  Dame  Blanche;  finally,  if  the  opera  pleases  so 
much,  it  is  that  it  is  everybody's  music,  so  it  must 
be  popular.  I  leave  you,  my  dear  friend;  since  the 
morning,  I  have  had  ideas  in  my  head  which  de- 
mand only  that  I  should  reascend  toward  God  upon 
the  wings  of  music;  but  I  wished  to  see  you  and  to 
speak  with  you.  Adieu!  I  am  going  to  ask  pardon 
of  the  Muse.  We  will  dine  together  this  evening, 
but  no  wine;  at  least,  not  for  me.  Oh!  1  am  resolved 
upon  it — " 

"  I  despair  of  him,"  said  Andrea,  blushing. 


90  GAMBARA 

"Ah!  you  restore  me  my  reason, "cried  Marianna, 
"  I  dared  no  longer  interrogate  it.  My  friend,  my 
friend,  it  is  not  our  fault,  he  will  not  be  cured." 

Six  years  afterward,  in  January,  1837,  the  ma- 
jority of  the  artists  who  had  the  misfortune  to  spoil 
their  wind  or  stringed  instruments  brought  them  to 
Rue  Froidmanteau,  to  a  squalid  and  horrible  house, 
in  which,  on  the  fifth  story,  lived  an  old  Italian, 
named  Gambara. — For  five  years  this  artist  had 
been  left  to  himself  and  abandoned  by  his  wife. 
Many  misfortunes  had  happened  to  him.  An  instru- 
ment by  which  he  expected  to  make  his  fortune,  and 
which  he  named  the  panharmonicon,  had  been  sold 
by  the  sheriff  upon  the  Place  du  Chatelet,  together 
with  a  load  of  ruled  paper,  blotted  over  with  musical 
notes.  On  the  day  following  the  sale,  these  scores 
had  enveloped,  at  the  Halle,  butter,  fish,  and  fruits. 
Thus  three  great  operas  of  which  this  poor  man 
spoke,  but  which  a  former  Neapolitan  cook,  now  a 
simple  huckster,  said  were  a  heap  of  nonsense,  had 
been  disseminated  in  Paris,  and  devoured  by  the 
baskets  of  retailers.  No  matter,  the  proprietor  of 
the  house  had  been  paid  his  rent,  and  the  officers 
their  expenses. 

According  to  the  account  of  the  old  Neapolitan 
huckster,  who  sold  the  remains  of  the  most  sumptu- 
ous repasts  served  in  the  city,  to  the  girls  of  the  Rue 
Froidmanteau,  the  Signora  Gambara  had  followed 
into  Italy  a  great  Milanese  seigneur,  and  no  one 
knew  what  had  become  of  her.  Worn  out  by  fifteen 
years  of  want,  she,  perhaps,  ruined  this  count  by  an 


GAMBARA  91 

exorbitant  luxury,  for  they  adored  each  other  so  well 
that  in  the  course  of  his  life  the  Neapolitan  had  seen 
no  example  of  a  similar  passion. 

Toward  the  end  of  this  same  month  of  January, 
one  evening,  when  Giardini  the  huckster  was  chat- 
ting with  a  girl  who  came  for  a  supper,  about  this 
divine  Marianna,  so  pure  and  so  beautiful,  so  nobly 
devoted,  and  who,  notwithstanding,  had  finished  like 
all  the  others,  the  girl,  the  huckster,  and  his  wife  per- 
ceived in  the  street  a  lean  woman,  with  a  blackened 
and  dusty  face, — a  nervous,  walking  skeleton,  who 
was  looking  at  the  numbers  and  seeking  to  recognize 
a  house. 

"Ecco  la  Marianna!"  said  the  huckster,  in  Italian. 
Marianna  at  once  recognized  the  Neapolitan  restaura- 
teur Giardini  in  the  poor  retailer,  without  considering 
by  what  misfortunes  he  had  been  reduced  to  keeping 
a  miserable  huckster's  shop.  She  entered,  sat  down, 
for  she  came  from  Fontainebleau;  she  had  travelled 
fourteen  leagues  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and  had 
begged  her  bread  from  Turin  to  Paris.  She  fright- 
ened this  wretched  trio!  Of  her  marvellous  beauty 
there  remained  but  two  fine  eyes,  sickly  and  lustre- 
less. The  only  thing  she  had  found  faithful  was  mis- 
fortune. She  was  heartily  welcomed  by  the  old  and 
skilful  repairer  of  instruments,  who  saw  her  enter 
with  an  unspeakable  pleasure. 

"  Here  you  are,  then,  my  poor  Marianna!"  he  said, 
with  kindness.  "  During  your  absence,  they  sold  my 
instruments  and  my  operas." 

It  was  difficult  to  kill  the  fatted  calf  on  the  return 


92  GAMBARA 

of  the  Samaritan,  but  Giardini  gave  the  remains  of 
a  salmon,  the  girl  paid  for  the  wine,  Gambara  offered 
his  bread,  the  Signora  Giardini  laid  the  cloth,  and 
these  unfortunates,  of  such  varied  conditions,  supped 
in  the  garret  of  the  composer.  Interrogated  about 
her  adventures,  Marianna  refused  to  answer,  and 
merely  raised  her  beautiful  eyes  to  Heaven,  saying 
in  a  low  voice  to  Giardini: 

"  He  was  married  to  a  dancer!" 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  for  a  living?"  said  the 
girl. 

"  The  journey  has  killed  you,  and — " 

"And  made  me  old,"  said  Marianna.  "  No,  it  is 
not  fatigue,  nor  misery,  but  sorrow." 

"Ah!  ah!  why  didn't  you  send  something  to  your 
husband?"  asked  the  girl. 

Marianna  only  replied  by  a  glance,  and  the  girl 
was  struck  to  the  heart. 

"  She  is  proud,  excuse  me!"  she  said.  "  How  will 
that  benefit  her?"  she  whispered  to  Giardini. 

That  year,  performers  took  unusual  care  in  re- 
gard to  their  instruments,  and  the  repairs  did  not 
suffice  to  defray  the  expenses  of  this  poor  house- 
hold; the  woman  no  longer  gained  much  by  her 
needle,  and  the  married  pair  were  compelled  to 
resign  themselves  to  the  necessity  of  employing 
their  talents  in  the  lowest  of  all  spheres.  Both 
went  out  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  and  wended 
their  way  to  the  Champs-Elysees  to  sing  duets 
which  Gambara,  poor  man!  accompanied  upon  a 
wretched  guitar.  On  the  way,  his  wife,  who,  on 


GAMBARA  93 

these  expeditions,  placed  upon  her  head  a  miserable 
muslin  veil,  led  her  husband  to  a  grocer's  in  the  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Honore,  and  made  him  drink  a  few  small 
glasses  of  brandy  to  intoxicate  him,  otherwise  his 
music  would  have  been  wretched.  They  placed 
themselves  before  the  fashionable  people  seated  on 
chairs,  and  one  of  the  greatest  geniuses  of  the  time, 
the  unknown  Orpheus  of  modern  music,  executed 
fragments  of  his  scores,  and  these  pieces  were  so  re- 
markable that  they  wrung  a  few  sous  from  Parisian 
indolence.  When  a  dilettante  of  the  Bouffons,  seated 
there  by  chance,  did  not  recognize  the  operas  from 
which  these  pieces  were  taken,  he  inquired  of  the 
woman  in  the  garb  of  a  Greek  priestess,  who  held 
out  to  him  a  round  lacquered  tray  in  which  she  col- 
lected alms: 

"  My  dear,  where  do  you  get  this  music?" 
"  From  the  opera  of  Mahomet,"  replied  Marianna, 
As    Rossini    had    composed   a   Mahomet   II.,  the 
dilettante  then  said  to  the  lady  who  accompanied 
him: 

"  What  a  pity  that  they  will  not  give  us  at 
the  Italiens  the  operas  of  Rossini  with  which  we 
are  unacquainted !  for  this,  certainly,  is  beautiful 
music." 

Gambara  smiled. 

Some  days  since,  the  paltry  sum  of  thirty-six 
francs  had  to  be  paid  for  the  rent  of  the  garrets  in 
which  the  poor  resigned  couple  lived.  The  grocer 
had  not  been  willing  to  give  credit  for  the  brandy 
with  which  the  woman  intoxicated  her  husband,  in 


94  GAMBARA 

order  to  make  him  play  well.  Gambara's  execu- 
tion was  then  so  detestable  that  the  ears  of  the  rich 
auditors  were  ungrateful,  and  the  tin  tray  returned 
empty.  It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  a  beau- 
tiful Italian,  the  Principessa  Massimilla  di  Varese,  took 
pity  on  these  poor  people;  she  gave  them  forty  francs 
and  questioned  them,  recognizing  from  the  thanks 
of  the  woman  that  she  was  a  Venetian;  the  Prince 
Emilio  requested  the  history  of  their  misfortunes, 
and  Marianna  told  it  without  any  complaint  against 
Heaven  or  men. 

"Madame,"  said  Gambara,  in  conclusion, — he 
was  not  intoxicated,  "  we  are  victims  of  our  own 
superiority.  My  music  is  fine;  but,  when  music 
passes  from  sensation  to  thought,  it  can  have  for 
auditors  only  people  of  genius,  for  they  alone  have 
the  power  to  develop  it.  My  misfortune  comes  from 
having  listened  to  the  concerts  of  the  angels  and 
having  believed  that  men  could  comprehend  them. 
The  same  thing  happens  to  women,  when,  with 
them,  love  takes  divine  forms, — men  no  longer 
understand  them." 

This  phrase  was  worth  the  forty  francs  that  Mas- 
similla had  given;  she  also  drew  from  her  purse 
another  gold  piece,  saying  to  Marianna  that  she 
would  write  to  Andrea  Marcosini. 

"  Do  not  write  to  him,  madame,"  said  Marianna, 
"and  may  God  always  keep  you  beautiful." 

"  Shall  we  take  charge  of  them?"  asked  the  prin- 
cess of  her  husband,  "for  this  man  has  remained 
faithful  to  the  IDEAL  that  we  have  killed." 


GAMBARA  95 

Seeing  the  piece  of  gold,  old  Gambara  wept; 
then  arose  a  reminiscence  of  his  former  scientific 
labors,  and  the  poor  composer,  wiping  his  tears, 
uttered  a  phrase  which  the  circumstance  rendered 
touching: 

"  Water  is  a  burnt  body." 

Paris,  June  1837. 


MASSIMILLA   DONI 


TO  JACQUES  STRUNZ 

MY  DEAR  STRUNZ  : 

It  would  be  ungrateful  in  me  not  to  attach  your 
name  to  one  of  the  two  works  which  I  never  could 
have  written  without  your  good-humored  patience 
and  your  kind  assistance.  Accept  this,  therefore, 
as  a  token  of  my  grateful  friendship,  for  the  courage 
with  which  you  tried,  it  may  be  without  success,  to 
initiate  me  in  the  profundities  of  musical  science. 
At  all  events,  you  taught  me  what  a  world  of  ob- 
stacles and  of  hard  tasks  to  be  performed  genius 
conceals  in  the  poems  which  are  to  us  the  source 
of  divine  enjoyment.  You  have  also  afforded  me 
more  than  once  the  diversion  of  laughing  at  the 
expense  of  more  than  one  self-styled  connoisseur. 
Some  people  charge  me  with  ignorance,  having  no 
suspicion  either  of  the  sound  advice  for  which  I  am 
indebted  to  one  of  the  foremost  critics  of  musical 
works,  or  of  your  painstaking  assistance.  Perhaps  I 
have  been  the  most  unfaithful  of  secretaries.  If  that 
be  so,  I  should  certainly  be  unwittingly  a  most  unre- 
liable interpreter,  and  yet  I  desire  to  be  able  always 
to  subscribe  myself  one  of  your  friends. 

DE  BALZAC. 


As  all  students  know,  the  nobility  of  Venice  is  the 
most  ancient  in  Europe.  Its  Book  of  Gold  antedates 
the  crusades,  at  which  period  Venice,  the  remnant 
of  imperial  and  Christian  Rome  which  plunged  into 
the  sea  to  escape  the  barbarians,  Venice,  already 
powerful,  already  illustrious,  dominated  the  world 
of  politics  and  commerce.  To-day,  that  nobility  is, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  families,  utterly  ruined. 
Among  the  gondoliers  who  act  as  guides  to  the  Eng- 
lish, to  whom  history  there  exhibits  their  own  fu- 
ture, are  descendants  of  former  doges  whose  families 
are  more  venerable  than  that  of  many  reigning  sov- 
ereigns. If  you  go  to  Venice,  you  will  observe  upon 
some  bridge  beneath  which  your  gondola  glides,  a 
sublimely  beautiful  maiden,  wretchedly  clad,  a  poor 
child  who  belongs,  perhaps,  to  one  of  the  most  illus- 
trious of  patrician  families.  When  a  race  of  kings 
has  reached  this  state,  necessarily  we  find  some 
curious  characters  in  its  ranks.  It  is  not  at  all 
strange  that  sparks  should  sometimes  glow  amid 
the  cinders.  These  reflections,  intended  to  justify  the 
singularity  of  the  characters  in  this  tale,  shall  go  no 
further,  for  there  is  nothing  more  unendurable  than 
the  constant  repetitions  of  those  who  discourse  of 
Venice  after  so  many  great  poets  and  small  travel- 
lers. The  interest  of  the  narrative  required  merely  a 
reference  to  the  most  striking  contrast  in  the  history 


102  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

of  mankind:  the  grandeur  and  the  misery  which  may 
be  seen  there  in  the  persons  of  certain  men  and  in 
most  of  the  dwellings. 

The  nobles  of  Venice  and  of  Genoa,  like  those  of 
Poland  in  the  old  days,  bore  no  titles.  To  be  called 
Quirini,  Doria,  Brignole,  Morosini,  Sauli,  Mocenigo, 
Fieschi, — Fiesque, — Cornaro,  or  Spinola,  satisfied 
the  most  exalted  pride.  Corruption  works  in  every- 
where: some  families  are  titled  to-day.  Neverthe- 
less, in  the  days  when  the  nobles  of  the  aristocratic 
republics  were  equal,  there  was  one  princely  title  at 
Genoa  in  the  Doria  family,  which  wielded  sovereign 
power  in  Amalfi,  and  a  similar  title  in  Venice,  justi- 
fied by  the  former  possessions  of  Facino  Cane,  Prince 
of  Varese.  The  Grimaldis,  who  became  sovereigns, 
seized  upon  Monaco  much  later. 

The  last  of  the  Canes  of  the  elder  branch  dis- 
appeared from  Venice  thirty  years  before  the  fall 
of  the  Republic,  having  been  convicted  of  crimes  of 
disputable  criminality.  The  family  to  whom  this 
nominal  principality  reverted,  the  Cane  Memmis, 
lapsed  into  indigence  during  the  fatal  period  be- 
tween 1796  and  1814.  In  the  twentieth  year  of 
this  century,  the  family  was  represented  only  by 
a  young  man  named  Emilio,  and  by  a  palace  which 
is  considered  one  of  the  noblest  ornaments  of  the 
Grand  Canal.  This  child  of  Venice  the  Beautiful 
had  no  other  fortune  than  that  useless  palace  and 
an  income  of  fifteen  hundred  lire  from  a  country 
house  on  the  Brenta,  the  last  remnant  of  all  the 
real  estate  his  family  formerly  possessed,  now  sold 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  103 

to  the  Austrian  government.  This  pittance  spared 
Emilio  the  disgrace  of  accepting,  as  many  nobles 
did,  the  indemnity  of  twenty  sous  a  day  payable  to 
all  destitute  patricians  by  the  terms  of  the  cession 
to  Austria. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  winter  season,  this  young 
nobleman  was  still  at  a  country  house  at  the  foot 
of  the  Tyrolese  Alps,  purchased  during  the  preced- 
ing spring  by  Duchesse  Cataneo.  The  house,  built 
by  Palladio  for  the  Piepolos,  consists  of  a  square 
pavilion  in  the  purest  style.  There  is  a  magnificent 
staircase,  marble  porticoes  on  each  facade,  peristyles 
with  arches  covered  with  frescoes,  and  saved  from 
any  appearance  of  heaviness  by  the  ultramarine  ceil- 
ing with  its  graceful  figures  and  decorations  florid  in 
execution,  but  so  well  proportioned  that  the  edifice 
carries  them  as  a  woman  carries  her  head-dress,  with 
a  facility  which  delights  the  eye, — in  a  word,  the 
graceful  stateliness  of  design  which  characterizes 
the  procuraties  of  the  Piazetta  at  Venice.  Stuccoes 
of  admirable  patterns  give  to  the  apartments  a  re- 
freshing coolness  which  makes  the  atmosphere  agree- 
able. The  outer  galleries,  adorned  with  frescoes, 
form  screens.  Everywhere  we  find  the  cool  Vene- 
tian pavement  where  the  marble  is  changed  into 
unchangeable  flowers.  The  furniture,  like  that  of 
most  Italian  palaces,  consists  of  a  profusion  of  the 
richest  silks,  and  of  valuable  pictures  admirably 
hung;  some  of  the  Genoese  priest  called  //  Capiicino, 
several  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Carlo  Dolci,  Tinto- 
retto, and  Titian.  The  terraced  gardens  present  to 


104  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

the  eye  the  marvellous  results  of  the  metamor- 
phosis of  gold,  in  rockwork  grottoes,  in  fanciful  ar- 
rangements of  pebbles  which  represent,  as  it  were, 
the  folly  of  toil,  in  terraces  built  by  fairies,  in  tiny 
dark-hued  forests,  where  tall  cypresses,  triangular 
pines,  and  the  melancholy  olive-trees  are  skilfully 
mingled  with  oranges,  laurels,  and  myrtles;  in  limpid 
pools  where  blue  and  red  fishes  swim.  Whatever 
one  may  say  in  favor  of  English  gardens,  those 
umbrella-shaped  trees,  those  clipped  yews,  that 
profusion  of  artistic  objects  so  cunningly  blended 
with  the  profusion  of  nature  embellished  by  cultiva- 
tion; those  cascades  with  marble  steps,  over  which 
the  water  glides  timidly,  like  a  scarf  carried  away 
by  the  wind,  but  instantly  replaced;  those  mute 
statues  in  bronze  which  stand  guard  over  silent 
retreats;  in  fine,  that  audacious  palace,  which  is  a 
landmark  from  all  sides,  as  it  rears  its  lacelike  cor- 
nices at  the  foot  of  the  Alps;  those  vivid  thoughts 
which  give  life  to  the  stone  and  bronze  and  plants, 
or  shape  themselves  like  flower-beds, — that  poetic 
prodigality  was  a  most  fitting  environment  of  the 
love  of  a  duchess  and  a  comely  youth,  which  is  a 
poetic  work  far  removed  from  the  purview  of  un- 
civilized nature. 

A  person  of  an  imaginative  turn  of  mind  would 
have  expected  to  see  upon  one  of  those  noble  stair- 
cases, beside  an  urn  with  circular  bas-reliefs,  a  little 
negro  with  no  clothing  save  a  red  skirt  about  his 
loins,  holding  an  umbrella  over  the  duchess's  head 
with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  the  long  train 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  105 

of  her  dress,  while  she  listened  to  Emilio  Memmi's 
voice.  And  how  the  Venetian  would  have  been 
improved  for  being  dressed  like  one  of  the  senators 
painted  by  Titian  !  Alas !  in  that  fairy  palace,  not 
unlike  the  palace  of  the  Peschiere  at  Genoa,  La 
Cataneo  complied  with  the  edicts  of  Victorine  and 
the  French  modistes.  She  wore  a  muslin  gown  and  a 
hat  of  rice-straw,  dainty  slippers  of  the  color  of  a 
pigeon's  breast,  and  thread  stockings  which  the 
lightest  breeze  would  have  whisked  away;  over  her 
shoulders  was  a  black  lace  shawl.  But  something 
that  will  never  be  understood  at  Paris,  where  women 
are  swathed  in  their  gowns  like  a  dragon-fly  in  its 
ringed  epidermis,  is  the  charming  abandon  with 
which  this  fair  daughter  of  Tuscany  wore  the  French 
costume;  she  had  Italianized  it.  The  Frenchwoman 
imparts  an  act  of  extraordinary  seriousness  to  her 
skirt,  whereas  an  Italian  thinks  but  little  about  it, 
does  not  defend  it  with  a  glance  of  stiff  formality, 
for  she  shows  that  she  is  under  the  protection  of  a 
single  love,  a  passion  that  is  serious  and  sacred  to 
her  and  to  another. 

About  eleven  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  having  just 
returned  from  a  walk,  Duchesse  Cataneo  was  re- 
clining on  a  sofa  near  a  table  on  which  lay  the  debris 
of  a  dainty  breakfast;  she  abandoned  the  muslin 
gown  to  the  discretion  of  her  lover,  never  uttering 
a  word  of  warning  at  any  movement  on  his  part. 
Emilio  sat  in  an  easy-chair  by  her  side,  holding  one 
of  her  hands  in  both  of  his,  and  gazing  at  her  in 
utter  oblivion  of  his  surroundings.  Do  not  ask  if 


106  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

they  loved  each  other;  they  loved  each  other  too 
well.  They  had  not  yet  reached  the  stage  of  read- 
ing in  the  book,  like  Paul  and  Francoise;  far  from 
it;  Emilio  dared  not  say:  Let  us  read!  In  the  gleam 
of  those  eyes  in  which  shone  two  green  pupils 
striped  by  golden  threads  which  started  from  the 
centre  like  the  radiations  from  a  crack  in  a  piece  of 
glass,  and  imparted  to  the  glance  the  soft  twinkle 
of  a  star,  he  felt  a  nervous  ecstasy  within,  which 
caused  a  convulsive  tremor.  At  times,  he  was  con- 
tent to  see  the  lovely  black  tresses  upon  that  adored 
head,  bound  by  a  plain  gold  circlet,  escaping  in 
glistening  masses  on  each  side  of  a  noble  brow,  to 
listen  to  the  throbbing  in  his  ears  caused  by  the  hur- 
ried onrush  of  the  blood  in  waves  through  his  veins, 
threatening  to  burst  the  blood-vessels  of  his  heart. 
By  virtue  of  what  moral  phenomenon  did  his  heart 
take  such  complete  possession  of  his  body  that  he 
no  longer  felt  aught  in  himself,  but  everything  in 
that  woman,  at  the  slightest  word  that  she  uttered 
in  a  voice  which  disturbed  the  sources  of  life  within 
him?  If  a  woman  of  moderate  beauty,  when  con- 
stantly studied  in  solitude,  becomes  sublime  and  im- 
posing, a  woman  so  superbly  beautiful  as  the  duchess 
might  well  stupefy  a  young  man  in  whom  mental 
exaltation  discovered  fresh  resources,  for  she  really 
absorbed  that  youthful  heart. 

Massimilla  Doni,  heiress  of  the  Donis  of  Flor- 
ence, had  married  the  Sicilian  Duke  Cataneo.  Her 
mother,  since  deceased,  had  thought  by  that  mar- 
riage to  make  her  rich  and  happy  in  accordance  with 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  107 

Florentine  customs.  She  had  imagined  that  her 
daughter,  who  left  a  convent  to  enter  life,  would 
contract,  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  love,  that 
second  marriage  of  the  heart  which  is  everything 
to  an  Italian  woman.  But  Massimilla  Doni  had 
acquired  in  the  convent  a  strong  inclination  for  a 
religious  life,  and  when  she  had  plighted  her  faith 
to  Duke  Cataneo  before  the  altar,  she  was  content, 
like  a  good  Christian,  to  be  his  wife.  But  that  was 
an  impossibility.  Cataneo,  who  simply  wanted  a 
duchess,  considered  it  very  absurd  to  be  a  husband; 
and  when  Massimilla  complained  of  his  treatment, 
he  coolly  bade  her  look  out  for  a  primo  cavaliere  ser- 
vante,  and  offered  his  services  to  bring  her  several 
to  select  from.  The  duchess  wept,  the  duke  left 
her.  Massimilla  saw  that  people  crowded  about  her; 
she  was  taken  by  her  mother  to  Pergola,  to  some 
diplomatic  houses,  to  the  Cascines,  wherever  there 
were  young  and  pretty  gallants  to  be  met;  she  found 
no  one  who  pleased  her,  and  she  began  to  travel. 
She  lost  her  mother,  inherited  her  fortune,  wore 
mourning  for  her,  went  to  Venice,  and  there  saw 
Emilio,  who,  as  he  passed  her  box,  exchanged  a 
curious  glance  with  her.  All  was  said.  The  Vene- 
tian felt  as  if  he  had  been  struck  by  lightning,  while 
a  voice  cried:  There  he  is!  in  the  duchess's  ears. 
Under  such  circumstances,  two  prudent  and  know- 
ing individuals  would  have  scrutinized  each  other, 
taken  scent  of  each  other;  but  those  two  ignorances 
blended  like  two  substances  of  the  same  nature 
which  become  one  when  they  meet.  Massimilla  soon 


108  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

became  a  Venetian,  and  purchased  the  palace  she  had 
previously  rented  on  the  Canareggio.  Then,  hard 
pressed  to  devise  a  means  of  spending  her  income, 
she  had  purchased  Rivalta  also,  the  country  house 
where  she  now  was. 

Emilio,  being  presented  to  La  Cataneo  by  La  Vul- 
pato,  called  upon  his  new  friend  in  her  box  at  the 
Opera  throughout  the  winter,  treating  her  with  the 
utmost  respect.  Never  was  love  more  tempestuous 
in  two  hearts,  or  more  timid  in  its  expressions.  The 
two  children  trembled  in  each  other's  presence. 
Massimilla  did  not  flirt,  she  had  no  secundo,  no  ter^p, 
no  patito.  Intent  upon  a  smile,  a  word,  she  con- 
templated with  admiration  her  young  Venetian  with 
the  pointed  face,  the  long,  thin  nose,  the  black  eyes, 
and  the  noble  brow,  who,  despite  her  ingenuous 
encouragement,  did  not  go  to  her  house  until  they 
had  passed  three  months  taming  each  other.  The 
summer  came  with  its  eastern  skies,  the  duchess 
lamented  that  she  had  to  go  alone  to  Rivalta.  Over- 
joyed and  at  the  same  time  disturbed  in  mind  at  the 
thought  of  the  tete-a-tete,  Emilio  accompanied  Mas- 
similla to  her  country-seat.  The  charming  couple 
had  been  there  six  months. 

Not  without  poignant  remorse  had  Massimilla,  at 
the  age  of  twenty,  immolated  her  religious  scruples 
on  the  altar  of  love;  but  she  had  slowly  laid  down 
her  weapons,  and  she  was  longing  to  contract  the 
marriage  of  the  heart,  so  strongly  urged  by  her 
mother,  at  the  moment  that  Emilio  held  her  lovely, 
aristocratic  hand,  long  and  white,  and  soft  as  satin, 


MASSIMILLA    DONI  IOQ 

and  ending  in  nails  beautifully  formed  and  colored  as 
if  she  had  received  from  Asia  a  little  of  the  henna 
which  the  sultan's  women  use  to  make  their  nails 
bright  red. 

A  calamity  of  which  Massimilla  knew  nothing,  but 
which  was  a  cause  of  cruel  suffering  to  Emilio,  had 
come  between  them  in  a  strange  way.  Massimilla, 
although  quite  young,  had  that  majesty  of  aspect 
which  mythological  tradition  ascribes  to  Juno,  the 
only  goddess  to  whom  mythology  gives  no  lover;  for 
even  Diana,  the  chaste  Diana,  loved  and  was  loved  ! 
Jupiter  alone  was  able  to  retain  his  self-possession  in 
presence  of  his  divine  better-half,  upon  whom  many 
English  ladies  model  themselves.  Emilio  placed  his 
mistress  on  a  pedestal  infinitely  too  high  for  him  to 
reach.  A  year  later,  perhaps,  he  would  no  longer 
be  the  victim  of  that  noble  disease  which  attacks 
only  old  men  and  very  young  men.  But,  as  he  who 
shoots  beyond  his  mark  is  as  far  from  hitting  it  as 
he  whose  arrow  falls  short,  the  duchess  found  her- 
self between  a  husband  who  knew  that  he  was  so 
far  from  the  mark  that  he  had  ceased  to  care  for  it, 
and  a  lover  who  flew  beyond  it  so  swiftly  on  the 
white  wings  of  the  angels,  that  he  could  not  return. 
Happy  in  being  loved,  Massimilla  enjoyed  desire  with- 
out imagining  what  its  goal  might  be;  while  her 
lover,  unhappy  in  happiness,  led  his  young  sweet- 
heart from  time  to  time,  by  a  promise,  to  the  brink 
of  what  women  call  the  abyss,  and  found  that  he  was 
obliged  to  pluck  the  flowers  that  grow  along  the 
brink,  but  could  do  nothing  more  than  strip  them  of 


110  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

their  leaves,  restraining  in  his  heart  a  frenzy  which 
he  dared  not  express. 

On  this  morning,  they  had  walked  together,  re- 
peating the  hymn  of  love  that  the  birds  sang  in  their 
nests  among  the  trees.  On  their  return,  the  young 
man,  whose  situation  can  be  described  only  by  com- 
paring him  to  the  angels  to  whom  painters  give  naught 
but  a  head  and  wings,  was  so  inflamed  by  passion 
that  he  had  expressed  a  doubt  of  the  duchess's  en- 
tire devotion  to  him,  in  order  to  lead  her  to  say: 
"What  proof  of  it  do  you  wish?"  The  question 
was  tossed  at  him  with  a  queenly  air,  and  Memmi 
passionately  kissed  the  lovely,  ignorant  hand.  Sud- 
denly he  rose,  frantic  with  rage  against  himself,  and 
left  Massimilla.  She  maintained  her  careless  atti- 
tude on  the  sofa,  but  she  wept,  wondering  in  what 
respect  she,  so  young  and  lovely,  failed  to  please 
Emilio.  For  his  part,  Memmi  rushed  about  the 
garden,  running  into  the  trees  like  a  hooded  crow. 
At  that  moment,  a  servant  came  in  search  of  the 
young  Venetian,  to  give  him  a  letter  just  arrived  by 
a  courier. 

His  only  friend,  Marco  Vendramini, — a  name  which 
is  also  pronounced  Vendramin  in  the  Venetian  dialect 
in  which  certain  final  letters  are  suppressed, — wrote 
to  inform  him  that  Marco  Facino  Cane,  Prince  of 
Varese,  had  died  in  a  hospital  at  Paris.  The  proofs 
of  his  decease  had  arrived.  Thus  the  Cane  Memmis 
became  Princes  of  Varese.  As  a  title  unaccompan- 
ied by  wealth  was  of  little  value  in  the  eyes  of 
the  two  friends,  Vendramin  announced  to  Emilio,  as 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  III 

a  much  more  important  piece  of  news,  the  engage- 
ment at  La  Fenice  of  the  famous  tenor  Genovese 
and  the  equally  famous  Signora  Tinti. 

Without  finishing  'the  letter,  which  he  crumpled 
and  thrust  into  his  pocket,  Emilio  ran  to  tell  Duchesse 
Cataneo  the  great  news,  entirely  forgetting  his  in- 
heritance of  a  coat  of  arms.  The  duchess  knew 
nothing  of  La  Tinti's  strange  history  which  aroused 
the  interest  of  Italy  in  her  behalf;  the  prince  told  it 
to  her  in  a  few  words.  The  illustrious  singer  was  a 
simple  inn-servant,  whose  marvellous  voice  had  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  a  Sicilian  nobleman  who 
happened  to  put  up  at  the  inn.  The  child's  beauty — 
she  was  then  twelve  years  old — proving  to  be  worthy 
of  her  voice,  the  great  nobleman's  awakened  interest 
had  led  him  to  provide  for  her  education  as  Louis  XV. 
provided  for  Mademoiselle  de  Romans  in  the  last  cen- 
tury. He  waited  patiently  until  Clara's  voice  had 
been  trained  by  a  famous  professor,  and  until  she 
was  sixteen  years  old,  before  enjoying  all  the  treas- 
ures so  laboriously  cultivated.  When  she  made  her 
debut  in  the  previous  year,  La  Tinti  had  carried 
by  storm  the  three  Italian  capitals  most  difficult  to 
please. 

"I  am  very  sure  that  the  great  nobleman  is  not 
my  husband,"  said  the  duchess. 

The  horses  were  ordered  at  once,  and  La  Cataneo 
set  out  for  Venice  forthwith,  in  order  to  be  present 
at  the  opening  of  the  winter  season. 


On  a  lovely  evening  in  the  month  of  November, 
the  new  Prince  of  Varese  passed  through  the  Mestre 
lagoon,  between  the  lines  of  posts  painted  with  the 
Austrian  colors  which  mark  the  course  assigned  by 
the  customs  officials  to  the  gondolas.  As  he  watched 
La  Cataneo's  gondola,  rowed  by  servants  in  livery, 
which  was  cleaving  the  water  a  gunshot  in  ad- 
vance, poor  Emilio,  whose  gondolier  was  an  old 
fellow  who  had  rowed  his  father  in  the  days  when 
Venice  still  lived,  could  not  repress  the  bitter  reflec- 
tions suggested  by  his  assumption  of  the  title. 

"  What  a  mockery  of  fate!  To  be  a  prince,  and  to 
have  an  income  of  fifteen  hundred  lire!  To  own  one 
of  the  noblest  palaces  in  the  world,  and  to  have  no 
power  to  dispose  of  the  marbles,  the  paintings,  the 
sculpture,  the  staircases,  which  an  Austrian  decree 
has  declared  inalienable!  To  live  in  an  edifice  set 
on  logwood  piles,  and  worth  a  million,  and  to  have 
no  furniture!  To  be  the  possessor  of  superb  gal- 
leries, and  to  occupy  a  chamber  above  the  upper- 
most arabesque  frieze,  built  of  marble  brought  from 
the  Morea,  which  a  Memmius  visited  as  a  conqueror 
under  the  Romans!  To  see,  in  one  of  the  most  mag- 
nificent churches  of  Venice,  one's  ancestors  carved 
in  priceless  marbles  on  their  tombs,  in  a  chapel 
adorned  by  works  of  Titian,  Tintoretto,  the  two 
8  (ii3) 


114  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

Palmas,  Bellini,  and  Paul  Veronese,  and  to  be  unable 
to  sell  a  marble  Memmi  to  England,  in  order  to  pro- 
vide the  Prince  of  Varese  with  bread !  Genovese, 
the  famous  tenor,  will  receive  in  one  season,  for  his 
roulades,  a  sufficient  sum  to  produce  the  income  upon 
which  a  descendant  of  the  Memmiuses,  Roman  sena- 
tors, of  as  old  a  family  as  the  Cassars  and  the  Syllas, 
could  live  in  happiness  and  plenty!  Genovese  can 
smoke  Indian  hookahs  and  the  Prince  of  Varese  has 
to  stint  himself  in  cigars!" 

He  tossed  his  cigar  end  into  the  water.  The 
Prince  of  Varese  obtained  his  cigars  from  La  Ca- 
taneo,  at  whose  feet  he  would  have  liked  to  lay 
all  the  wealth  of  the  world;  the  duchess  studied  all 
his  caprices,  and  was  overjoyed  to  gratify  them! 
He  had  no  choice  but  to  take  his  only  meal,  his 
supper,  with  her,  for  all  his  available  funds  went  to 
pay  for  his  dress  and  his  tickets  to  La  Fenice.  He 
was  obliged  to  raise  a  hundred  lire  a  year,  too,  for 
his  father's  old  gondolier,  who  lived  on  rice  in  order 
to  continue  in  his  service  for  those  wages.  Lastly, 
he  must  also  be  able  to  pay  for  the  cups  of  black 
coffee  which  he  drank  every  morning  at  the  Cafe 
Florian  to  sustain  him  until  evening  in  a  state  of 
nervous  excitement,  which  he  relied  upon  as  a  means 
of  death,  as  Vendramini  relied  upon  opium. 

"And  I  am  a  prince!" 

As  he  spoke,  Emilio  Memmi  threw  Marco  Ven- 
dramini's  letter  into  the  lagoon,  without  finishing 
it,  and  it  floated  away  like  a  paper  boat  launched 
by  a  child. 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  11$ 

"But  Emilio,"  he  continued,  "is  only  three-and- 
twenty.  So  he  is  a  better  man  than  the  gouty  Lord 
Wellington,  than  the  paralytic  Regent,  than  the  im- 
perial family  of  Austria,  tainted  with  disease,  than 
the  King  of  France — " 

But  at  the  thought  of  the  King  of  France,  Emilio's 
brow  contracted,  his  ivory  complexion  became  sallow, 
tears  gathered  in  his  black  eyes  and  glistened  on  his 
long  lashes;  with  a  hand  worthy  the  brush  of  Titian, 
he  rumpled  his  thick,  brown  hair  and  fixed  his  eyes 
anew  on  La  Cataneo's  gondola. 

"The  mockery  in  which  Fate  indulges  in  my 
regard,  is  noticeable  also  in  my  love,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  My  heart  and  my  imagination  are  over- 
flowing with  treasures,  and  Massimilla  does  not  know 
of  their  existence;  she  is  a  Florentine,  she  will  de- 
sert me.  Oh!  to  feel  this  freezing  sensation  by  her 
side,  when  her  voice  and  her  glance  cause  celestial 
sensations  within  me!  Seeing  her  gondola  thus, 
within  a  few  yards  of  mine,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  a 
hot  iron  were  thrust  into  my  heart.  An  invisible  fluid 
passes  through  my  nerves  and  sets  them  on  fire,  a 
cloud  passes  before  my  eyes,  the  air  seems  to  me  of 
the  same  color  as  at  Rivalta,  when  the  light  shone 
through  a  red  silk  shade,  and  when,  unseen,  I  gazed 
in  admiration  as  she  sat  musing  and  smiling  sweetly, 
like  Leonardo's  Monna  Lisa.  Either  My  Highness 
will  end  his  life  with  a  pistol-shot,  or  the  son  of  the 
Canes  will  follow  old  Carmagnola's  advice:  we  will 
turn  sailors,  pirates,  and  will  amuse  ourselves  seeing 
how  long  we  can  live  before  we  are  hanged." 


Il6  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

The  prince  took  a  fresh  cigar  and  watched  the 
fanciful  shapes  assumed  by  the  smoke  in  the  wind, 
as  if  he  saw  in  its  caprices  an  echo  of  his  last 
thought.  In  the  distance,  he  could  already  see  the 
slender  points  of  the  Moorish  decoration  on  the  roof 
of  his  palace:  he  relapsed  into  melancholy.  The 
duchess's  gondola  had  disappeared  in  the  Canareg- 
gio.  The  fancies  of  a  romantic,  perilous  life,  adopted 
as  a  fitting  denouement  of  his  love,  died  away  with 
his  cigar,  and  his  friend's  gondola  no  longer  marked 
his  path.  Thereupon  he  saw  the  present  as  it  was: 
a  palace  without  a  soul,  a  soul  without  effect  on  the 
body,  a  principality  without  money,  an  empty  body 
and  an  overflowing  heart,  a  multitude  of  heart-rend- 
ing antitheses.  The  unhappy  youth  mourned  for  his 
old  Venice,  even  as  Vendramini  still  mourned  for 
it  more  bitterly  than  ever,  for  a  profound  mutual 
grief,  and  similarity  of  destiny,  had  given  birth  to 
a  warm  friendship  between  these  two  young  men, 
the  last  remnants  of  two  illustrious  families.  Emilio 
could  not  refrain  from  thinking  of  the  days  when  the 
Memmi  palace  vomited  light  through  all  its  windows, 
and  was  filled  with  music  which  echoed  far  over  the 
waves  of  the  Adriatic;  when  hundreds  of  gondolas 
were  made  fast  to  its  piles;  when  its  steps,  kissed 
by  the  rippling  waters,  were  thronged  with  elegant 
masks  and  dignitaries  of  the  Republic;  when  its 
salons  and  its  gallery  were  filled  with  an  inquisi- 
tive and  intriguing  assemblage;  when  the  great 
banquet-hall,  with  its  joyous  tables  in  the  centre 
and  its  high  circular  galleries,  echoing  with  the 


MASSIMILLA    DONI  117 

strains  of  music,  seemed  to  contain  all  Venice,  going 
and  coming  over  the  staircases,  which  rang  with 
laughter.  The  chisel  of  the  most  eminent  artists 
had,  from  century  to  century,  carved  the  bronze 
which  then  supported  the  long-necked  or  corpulent 
vases  purchased  in  China,  and  the  candelabra  with 
innumerable  branches.  Every  country  had  furnished 
its  share  of  the  superb  decorations  of  the  walls  and 
ceilings.  To-day,  the  walls,  stripped  of  their  rich 
hangings,  and  the  cheerless  ceilings,  held  their  peace 
and  wept.  No  Turkish  carpets,  no  chandeliers 
festooned  with  flowers,  no  statues,  no  pictures,  no 
merriment,  and  no  money,  that  great  producer  of 
merriment!  Venice,  that  London  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  was  crumbling  stone  by  stone,  man  by  man. 
The  dank  verdure  which  the  sea  nourishes  and 
caresses  at  the  base  of  the  palaces,  seemed  to  the 
prince  like  a  black  fringe  placed  there  by  nature  as 
a  symbol  of  death.  And  last  of  all,  an  English 
poet  had  swooped  down  upon  Venice  like  a  crow 
upon  a  dead  body,  to  caw  at  her  in  lyric  poetry,  in 
that  first  and  last  language  of  society,  the  stanzas  of 
a  De  Profundis!  English  poetry  thrown  in  the  face 
of  a  city  which  had  given  birth  to  Italian  poetry! 
Poor  Venice! 

Imagine  the  profound  astonishment  of  a  young 
man  engrossed  by  such  thoughts,  when  Carmagnola 
exclaimed  : 

"  Serene  Highness,  the  palace  is  burning,  or  else 
the  old  doges  have  returned.  There  are  lights  at  the 
windows  of  the  upper  gallery!" 


Il8  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

Prince  Emilio  thought  that  his  dream  had  been 
made  real  by  the  touch  of  a  magic  wand.  In  the 
gathering  darkness,  the  old  gondolier  was  able  to  land 
his  young  master  on  the  lowest  step,  unseen  by  any 
of  the  people  bustling  about  in  the  palace,  some  of 
them  buzzing  on  the  stoop  like  bees  at  the  entrance 
to  a  hive.  Emilio  glided  into  the  vast  peristyle  which 
contained  the  most  beautiful  stairway  in  Venice,  and 
ascended  it  slowly,  in  order  to  ascertain  the  cause 
of  this  strange  state  of  affairs.  A  whole  world  of 
mechanics  were  making  all  haste  to  complete  the 
furnishing  and  decoration  of  the  palace.  The  first 
floor,  worthy  of  the  ancient  reputation  of  Venice, 
offered  to  Emilio's  gaze  the  beautiful  things  of  which 
he  had  been  dreaming  a  moment  before,  and  the 
fairy  had  arranged  them  with  the  most  excellent 
taste.  Even  in  the  most  trifling  details  was  dis- 
played a  magnificence  befitting  a  king's  palace. 
Emilio  walked  about  without  attracting  the  slightest 
observation,  and  he  proceeded  from  surprise  to  sur- 
prise. Curious  to  see  what  was  taking  place  on 
the  second  floor,  he  went  up,  and  found  that  there  the 
furnishing  was  completed.  The  unknown  genii  em- 
ployed by  the  enchanter  to  reproduce  the  marvels 
of  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights  in  favor  of  a  poor 
Italian  prince  were  replacing  some  shabby  articles  of 
furniture  which  had  been  provided  originally. 

Prince  Emilio  came  at  last  to  the  sleeping  apart- 
ment of  the  second-floor  suite,  which  smiled  upon 
him  like  a  shell  from  which  Venus  had  just  emerged. 
It  was  so  daintily  lovely,  so  prettily  decorated,  so 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  119 

coquettish,  so  replete  with  exquisite  refinement,  that 
he  threw  himself  into  an  easy-chair  of  gilded  wood 
beside  a  table  on  which  the  most  toothsome  of  cold 
suppers  was  served;  and  without  further  ceremony, 
he  began  to  eat. 

"  I  can  think  of  nobody  in  the  whole  world  but 
Massimilla  who  can  have  conceived  the  idea  of  this 
surprise.  She  must  have  found  out  that  I  am  a 
prince;  perhaps  Due  Cataneo  is  dead  and  has  left 
her  his  property;  in  that  case,  she  is  twice  as  rich 
as  before,  she  will  marry  me,  and — " 

Whereupon  he  ate  in  a  way  to  earn  the  hatred  of 
any  dyspeptic  millionaire  who  might  have  chanced 
to  see  him  devouring  that  supper,  and  he  drank 
oceans  of  an  excellent  port  wine. 

"Now  I  can  understand  the  significant  air  with 
which  she  said:  '  Until  this  evening!'  Perhaps  she 
will  come  and  disenchant  me.  What  a  beautiful 
bed!  and  what  a  pretty  lantern  in  the  bed !  Pshaw! 
a  Florentine  fairy!" 

There  are  some  richly-endowed  organizations  upon 
which  extreme  happiness  or  unhappiness  has  a  so- 
porific effect.  Now,  upon  a  young  man  whose  im- 
agination was  powerful  enough  to  idealize  a  mistress 
so  completely  that  she  no  longer  seemed  to  him  a 
mere  woman,  the  too  sudden  arrival  of  good  fortune 
was  certain  to  act  like  a  dose  of  opium.  When  the 
prince  had  finished  the  bottle  of  port,  eaten  half  a 
fish  and  a  portion  of  a  French  pate,  he  felt  a  most 
violent  inclination  to  retire.  Perhaps  he  was  doubly 
intoxicated.  He  removed  the  coverlet  with  his  own 


I2O  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

hands,  and  prepared  the  bed,  undressed  in  a  charm- 
ing little  dressing-room,  and  went  to  bed  to  reflect 
upon  his  destiny. 

"I  have  forgotten  poor  Carmagnola,"  he  said  to 
himself;  "but  my  cook  and  my  butler  will  attend 
to  him." 

At  that  moment,  a  lady's-maid  tripped  lightly  into 
the  room,  humming  an  air  from  the  Barber  of  Seville. 
She  threw  upon  a  chair  an  armful  of  female  gar- 
ments, a  complete  costume  for  the  night,  exclaiming: 

"  They  are  coming  in!" 

And,  in  very  truth,  a  few  moments  later  a  young 
woman  appeared,  dressed  in  the  French  fashion, 
who  might  have  been  taken  for  the  original  of  some 
fanciful  English  drawing  designed  for  a  Forget-me- 
not,  une  belle  assemblee,  or  a  Book  of  Beauty.  The 
prince  quivered  with  alarm  and  pleasure,  for  he  loved 
Massimilla,  as  you  know.  Now,  despite  the  loyal 
love  which  glowed  in  his  veins,  and  which  formerly 
inspired  the  pictures  of  Spain,  the  Madonnas  of 
Italy,  the  statues  of  Michael  Angelo,  and  Ghiberti's 
doors  to  the  Baptistery,  lust  enveloped  him  in  its 
meshes  and  desire  excited  him,  but  did  not  over- 
spread his  heart  with  that  warm  ethereal  essence 
which  a  glance  or  the  lightest  word  from  La  Cataneo 
infused  therein.  His  mind,  his  heart,  his  reason,  his 
whole  will,  cried  out  at  the  thought  of  infidelity;  but 
brutal  and  capricious  infidelity  overpowered  them  all. 

The  woman  was  not  alone.  The  prince  saw  one 
of  those  personages  in  whose  existence  no  one  is 
willing  to  believe  when  they  are  transferred  from 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  121 

the  state  of  reality,  in  which  we  contemplate  them 
in  wondering  admiration,  to  the  fanciful  state  of  a 
description  of  more  or  less  literary  excellence.  The 
stranger's  costume,  like  that  of  the  Neapolitans,  was 
of  five  colors,  if  we  may  count  the  black  of  the  hat  a 
color:  his  breeches  were  olive,  his  red  waistcoat  glit- 
tered with  gilt  buttons,  his  coat  was  of  a  greenish  hue, 
and  his  linen  was  very  nearly  yellow.  He  seemed 
to  have  taken  it  upon  himself  to  prove  the  authen- 
ticity of  the  Neapolitan  whom  Gerolamo  always 
introduces  on  the  stage  of  his  marionette  theatre. 
His  eyes  seemed  to  be  of  glass.  The  nose,  like  an 
ace  of  clubs  in  shape,  was  unpleasantly  prominent; 
it  overshadowed,  however,  for  modesty's  sake,  a 
hole  which  it  would  be  insulting  to  mankind  to  call 
a  mouth,  in  which  could  be  seen  three  or  four  white 
tusks  endowed  with  movement,  which  changed  their 
positions  at  will.  The  ears  bent  beneath  their  own 
weight,  and  caused  a  curious  resemblance  to  a  dog. 
The  complexion,  which  was  supposed  to  show  the 
effect  of  the  infusion  of  several  metals  into  the  blood 
by  order  of  some  Hippocrates,  was  not  far  from 
black.  The  brow,  pointed  in  shape  and  partially 
hidden  by  thin,  straight  hair,  which  fell  over  his 
temples  like  threads  of  blown  glass,  crowned  with 
reddish  blotches  a  countenance  far  from  prepossess- 
ing. Although  only  of  medium  height  and  thin,  this 
gentleman  had  very  long  arms  and  broad  shoulders. 
Despite  these  unattractive  details,  and  although  you 
would  have  said  that  he  was  seventy  years  of  age, 
he  did  not  lack  a  certain  Cyclopean  majesty;  his 


122  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

manners  were  aristocratic,  and  in  his  glance  there 
was  the  self-assured  expression  of  the  man  of 
wealth.  Whoever  had  sufficient  courage  to  ob- 
serve him  carefully  could  read  his  history  written 
by  the  passions  in  that  noble  clay  now  mixed  with 
mud.  You  could  detect  the  great  nobleman  who 
had  been  possessed  of  great  wealth  from  his  earliest 
youth,  and  had  sold  his  body  to  debauchery  for  the 
exorbitant  pleasures  it  afforded  him.  Debauchery 
had  destroyed  the  human  creature,  and  had  made 
of  it  another  for  its  own  use.  Tens  of  thousands  of 
bottles  had  passed  beneath  the  empurpled  arches 
of  that  grotesque  nose,  leaving  their  dregs  on  his 
lips.  The  long  and  fatiguing  processes  of  digestion 
had  carried  away  his  teeth.  His  eyes  had  lost  their 
fire  in  the  glare  of  the  gaming  table.  The  blood  had 
become  laden  with  impure  elements  which  had  de- 
ranged the  nervous  system.  The  working  of  the 
digestive  forces  had  absorbed  the  intelligence.  And, 
lastly,  love  had  destroyed  the  young  man's  glossy 
and  abundant  hair.  Each  vice,  like  a  greedy  heir, 
had  branded  its  portion  of  the  still  living  corpse.  If 
we  watch  nature  carefully,  we  discover  therein  iron- 
ical jests  of  a  superior  sort:  for  instance,  it  places 
toadstools  beside  flowers,  as  that  duke  was  placed 
beside  that  rose  of  love. 

"Will  you  play  the  violin  to-night,  my  dear 
duke?"  said  the  young  woman,  releasing  the  cord 
and  letting  fall  a  magnificent  portiere  over  the 
doorway. 

"  Play  the  violin!"  said  Emilio  to  himself,  "  what 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  123 

does  she  mean?  What  has  been  done  with  my 
palace?  Am  I  awake?  Here  I  am  in  this  woman's 
bed,  who  seems  to  think  she  is  at  home —  She  is 
taking  off  her  cape!  Have  I  been  smoking  opium, 
like  Vendramin,  and  am  I  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the 
dreams  in  which  he  sees  Venice  as  it  was  three 
hundred  years  ago?" 

Seated  in  front  of  her  toilet-table,  in  the  candle- 
light, the  stranger  began  to  lay  aside  her  clothes 
with  the  most  tranquil  air  imaginable. 

"  Ring  for  Julia,  I  am  in  a  hurry  to  undress." 

At  that  moment,  the  duke's  eye  fell  upon  the 
partly-consumed  supper;  he  looked  about  the  room 
and  spied  the  prince's  breeches  stretched  out  on  a 
chair  beside  the  bed. 

"  I  will  not  ring,  Clarina!"  he  cried,  shrilly,  in  a 
towering  rage.  "  I  will  not  play  the  violin  to-night 
or  to-morrow,  or  ever  again." 

"  Ta  ta  ta  ta!"  sang  Clarina  on  the  same  note, 
jumping  from  octave  to  octave  with  the  ease  of  the 
nightingale. 

"  For  all  that  voice  of  yours,  which  would  make 
Santa  Clara,  your  patron,  jealous,  you  are  altogether 
too  impudent,  madame  hussy!" 

"  You  did  not  bring  me  up  to  hear  such  words!" 
she  said,  proudly. 

"  Did  1  bring  you  up  to  keep  a  man  in  your  bed? 
You  deserve  neither  benefactions  nor  hatred  from 
me." 

"A  man  in  my  bed  !"  cried  Clarina,  turning  hastily 
in  that  direction. 


124  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

"And  a  man  who  has  coolly  eaten  our  supper,  as 
if  he  were  at  home,"  added  the  duke. 

"  Why,  am  I  not  in  my  own  home?"  cried  Emilio. 
"  I  am  the  Prince  of  Varese,  and  this  palace  is 
mine." 

As  he  spoke,  Emilio  sat  up  and  revealed  his  noble 
and  handsome  Venetian  face  amid  the  luxurious 
draperies  of  the  bed.  Instantly,  Clarina  began  to 
laugh,  the  insane  laughter  which  seizes  young 
women  when  something  irresistibly  comical  and 
utterly  unexpected  happens  to  them.  But  her 
laughter  came  to  an  end  when  she  looked  more 
closely  at  the  young  man,  who,  let  us  observe, 
was  remarkably  handsome  although  slightly  clothed; 
the  same  passion  which  was  gnawing  at  Emilio  at- 
tacked her,  and  as  she  was  in  love  with  no  one, 
there  was  nothing  to  restrain,  in  her  case,  the  fancy 
of  an  amorous  Sicilian. 

"Although  this  is  the  Memmi  palace,  Your  Serene 
Highness  will  have  the  kindness  to  leave  it  none  the 
less,"  said  the  duke,  assuming  the  cold  and  ironical 
air  of  a  polished  man  of  the  world.  "  I  am  in  my 
own  house — " 

"Remember,  monsieur  le  due,  that  you  are  in 
my  apartment,  and  not  in  your  own  house,"  said 
Clarina,  rousing  herself  from  her  lethargy.  "  If 
you  entertain  any  suspicions  of  my  virtue,  I  beg 
you  to  leave  me  the  benefits  of  my  crime — " 

"Suspicions!     Say  certainty,  my  love." 

"I  swear  to  you,"  rejoined  Clarina,  "that  I  am 
innocent." 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  12$ 

"But  what  do  I  see  in  yonder  bed?"  said  the 
duke. 

"Ah!  you  old  villain,  if  you  believe  what  you  see 
rather  than  what  I  tell  you,  you  no  longer  love  me!" 
cried  Clarina.  "  Off  with  you,  and  don't  make  my 
ears  ache  any  more!  Do  you  hear  me?  Go,  mon- 
sieur le  due!  This  young  prince  will  repay  you  the 
million  I  have  cost  you,  if  you  insist  upon  it." 

"  I  will  repay  nothing,"  said  Emilio  in  an  under- 
tone. 

"  But  there's  nothing  to  repay;  a  million's  little 
enough  for  the  privilege  of  having  Clarina  Tinti, 
when  a  man's  so  ugly  as  you  are.  Go,  I  tell  you," 
she  said  to  the  duke,  "you  have  dismissed  me  and  I 
dismiss  you,  so  we  are  quits." 

At  a  gesture  from  the  old  duke,  who  seemed  in- 
clined to  resist  this  order,  uttered  in  an  attitude 
worthy  of  the  role  of  Semiramide,  to  which  La  Tinti 
owed  her  great  reputation,  the  prima-donna  rushed 
at  the  old  monkey  and  pushed  him  through  the  door. 

"  If  you  do  not  leave  me  at  peace — tranquitte — to- 
night, we  shall  never  meet  again.  My  never  means 
more  than  yours,"  she  said. 

"Tranquitte!  "  retorted  the  duke,  laughing  bitterly; 
"I  should  say,  my  dear  idol,  that  I  leave  you  de- 
cidedly agitata." 

He  left  the  room.  This  cowardly  behavior  did  not 
surprise  Emilio.  All  those  who  have  accustomed 
themselves  to  some  particular  flavor,  selected  from 
among  all  the  effects  of  love,  and  which  accords  with 
their  nature,  are  aware  that  no  consideration  checks 


126  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

a  man  whose  passion  has  become  a  habit.  La  Tinti 
leaped  like  a  fawn  from  the  door  to  the  bed. 

"A  prince,  poor,  young,  and  handsome!  why,  it's 
a  real  fairy-tale!"  she  said. 

She  seated  herself  on  the  bed  with  a  grace  which 
recalled  the  artless  unconstraint  of  the  animal,  the 
unconscious  movement  of  the  plant  toward  the  sun, 
or  the  graceful  waltz  movement  of  twigs  in  the  wind. 

Loosening  the  wristbands  of  her  dress,  she  began 
to  sing,  not  with  the  voice  which  evoked  applause 
at  La  Fenice,  but  with  a  voice  made  tremulous  by 
desire.  Her  song  was  like  a  breeze  which  wafted  to 
the  heart  the  caresses  of  love.  She  glanced  furtively 
at  Emilio,  who  was  no  less  embarrassed  than  she; 
for  this  actress  had  lost  the  audacity  which  en- 
livened her  eyes,  her  gestures,  and  her  voice  when 
she  dismissed  the  duke;  no,  she  was  as  humble  as 
the  amorous  courtesan.  To  form  a  just  conception 
of  La  Tinti,  one  must  have  seen  one  of  the  best  of 
French  actresses  at  her  debut  in  //  Fa^pletto,  an 
opera  by  Garcia  produced  about  this  time  at  the 
Italiens  on  Rue  Louvois;  she  was  so  lovely  that  a 
poor  garde  du  corps,  who  had  failed  to  gain  her  ear, 
killed  himself  in  despair.  The  prima-donna  of  La 
Fenice  had  the  same  refinement  of  expression,  the 
same  graceful  figure,  the  same  youth;  but  in  her 
there  was  an  abundance  of  the  warm  Sicilian  color- 
ing which  gave  a  golden  tinge  to  her  beauty;  her 
voice,  too,  was  richer;  and,  finally,  she  had  that 
majestic  aspect  which  is  the  distinguishing  char- 
acteristic of  an  Italian  woman's  figure.  La  Tinti, 


MASSIMILLA    DONI  I2/ 

whose  name  so  closely  resembles  that  which  the 
French  singer  manufactured  for  herself,  was  seven- 
teen years  of  age,  and  the  poor  prince  was  twenty- 
three.  What  jocose  hand  had  amused  itself  by  thus 
placing  fire  in  such  close  proximity  to  powder?  A 
perfumed  chamber,  hung  with  bright  red  curtains, 
brilliant  with  candles,  a  lace-trimmed  bed,  a  silent 
palace,  Venice!  two  young  people,  both  beautiful ! 
all  forms  of  luxury  united. 

Emilio  seized  his  breeches,  leaped  out  of  bed, 
rushed  into  the  dressing-room,  dressed  himself,  came 
out,  and  hurried  toward  the  door. 

This  is  what  he  said  to  himself  as  he  was  putting 
on  his  clothes  : 

"  Massimilla,  dear  daughter  of  the  Donis,  in  whom 
the  beauty  of  Italy  is  a  hereditary  treasure,  thou 
who  dost  not  belie  the  promise  of  the  portrait  of 
Margherita,  one  of  the  few  canvases  painted  en- 
tirely by  Raphael  for  his  renown!  my  lovely  and 
saintly  mistress,  shall  I  not  better  deserve  thee  by 
flying  from  this  flower-strewn  abyss?  Should  I  be 
worthy  of  thee  if  I  profaned  a  heart  that  is  wholly 
thine?  No,  I  will  not  fall  into  the  vulgar  trap  set  for 
me  by  my  rebellious  senses.  Let  this  girl  keep  her 
duke,  and  I  my  duchess  !" 

As  he  raised  the  portiere,  he  heard  a  moan.  The 
heroic  lover  turned  and  saw  La  Tinti  lying  with  her 
face  buried  in  the  bed,  stifling  her  sobs.  Will  you 
believe  it?  The  singer  was  lovelier  on  her  knees, 
with  her  face  hidden,  than  in  her  former  embarrass- 
ment when  her  face  was  glowing.  Her  hair  unloosed 


128  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

and  falling  over  her  shoulders,  her  Magdalen-like 
pose,  the  disorder  of  her  torn  garments,  all  had  been 
arranged  by  the  devil,  who,  as  you  know,  is  a  great 
colorist.  The  prince  took  poor  Clarina  by  the  waist, 
but  she  glided  from  his  grasp  like  a  snake  and  twined 
herself  about  one  of  his  feet,  against  which  he  felt 
the  soft  pressure  of  her  lovely  flesh. 

"  Will  you  explain  to  me,"  he  said,  shaking  his 
foot  to  withdraw  it  from  the  girl's  embrace,  "  how 
you  happen  to  be  in  my  palace?  how  poor  Emilio 
Memmi — " 

"  Emilio  Memmi !"  cried  La  Tinti,  rising;  "  you 
said  that  you  were  a  prince — " 

"  A  prince  since  yesterday." 

"You  love  La  Cataneo!"  said  La  Tinti,  eyeing 
him  from  head  to  foot. 

Emilio  did  not  reply,  seeing  the  prima-donna  smile 
amid  her  tears. 

"  Your  Highness  does  not  know  that  the  man 
who  gave  me  my  education  for  the  stage,  that  this 
duke — is  Cataneo  himself;  and  your  friend  Vendra- 
min,  believing  that  he  was  acting  in  your  interest,  let 
this  palace  to  him  for  the  term  of  my  engagement  at 
La  Fenice,  for  a  thousand  crowns.  Dear  idol  of  my 
desire,"  she  said,  taking  his  hand  and  drawing  him 
toward  her,  "  why  do  you  avoid  her  for  whom 
many  men  would  submit  to  have  their  bones  broken? 
Love,  you  see,  will  always  be  love.  It  is  always 
the  same,  it  is  the  sun  of  our  hearts,  as  it  were, 
we  warm  ourselves  wherever  it  shines,  and  at  this 
moment  it  is  high  noon.  If  you  are  not  content 


IN  THE  PALACE  MEMMI 


As  he  spoke,  Emilio  sat  up  and  revealed  his  noble 
and  handsome  Venetian  face  amid  the  luxurious 
draperies  of  the  bed.  Instantly,  Clarina  began  to 
laugh,  the  insane  laughter  which  seises  yoiing 
women  when  something  irresistibly  comical  and 
utterly  unexpected  happens  to  them. 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  1 29 

to-morrow,  kill  me!  But  I  shall  live  on,  I  tell  you, 
for  I  am  outrageously  lovely." 

Emilio  determined  to  remain.  When  he  had  con- 
sented by  a  nod  of  his  head,  La  Tinti's  thrill  of  joy 
seemed  to  him  to  be  illumined  by  a  bright  light  from 
hell.  Never  had  love  assumed  such  an  imposing 
aspect  in  his  eyes. 

At  that  moment,  Carmagnola  whistled  vigorously. 

"What  can  he  want  of  me?"  said  the  prince  to 
himself. 

Vanquished  by  love,  Emilio  paid  no  heed  to  Car- 
magnola's  repeated  whistling. 

If  you  have  not  travelled  in  Switzerland,  you  will 
perhaps  take  pleasure  in  reading  this  description, 
and,  if  you  have  climbed  the  lofty  mountains  of  that 
country,  you  will  not  recall  unmoved  their  precipi- 
tous slopes.  In  that  sublime  region,  in  the  bosom  of  a 
huge  cliff  cleft  by  a  valley, — a  sunken  path  as  broad 
as  Avenue  de  Neuilly  at  Paris,  but  several  hundred 
fathoms  deep  and  bristling  with  ravines, — there  is  a 
water-course,  coming  from  the  Saint-Gothard,  the 
Simplon,  or  some  Alpine  peak  or  other,  which  falls 
into  a  vast  well,  how  many  fathoms  deep  I  know  not, 
but  several  fathoms  long  and  wide,  bordered  by  huge 
blocks  of  jagged  granite  upon  which  are  green  fields, 
while  giant  firs  and  alders  rear  their  heads  between 
them,  and  strawberries  and  violets  grow  all  about; 
sometimes  you  pass  a  chalet,  at  the  window  of 
which  appears  the  rosy  face  of  a  fair-haired  Swiss 
maiden;  the  water  in  this  well  is  blue  or  green, 
according  to  the  aspect  of  the  heavens,  but  its  blue 

9 


130  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

is  the  blue  of  the  sapphire,  its  green  that  of  the 
emerald ;  and  nothing  on  earth  represents  so  per- 
fectly to  the  most  heedless  traveller,  the  most  inde- 
fatigable diplomat,  the  most  easy-going  shopkeeper, 
the  ideas  of  depth,  calmness,  immensity,  divine  love, 
and  eternal  happiness,  as  this  liquid  diamond,  where 
the  snow,  rushing  from  the  lofty  Alps,  flows  in  the 
form  of  limpid  water  through  a  natural  canal,  con- 
cealed beneath  the  trees,  hollowed  out  of  the  rock, 
whence  it  emerges  through  a  cleft,  without  a  sound; 
the  stream,  flowing  directly  over  the  abyss,  glides 
so  gently  that  you  can  detect  no  disturbance  on  its 
surface  in  which  the  carriage  is  reflected  as  you 
pass.  Now  the  horses  receive  two  blows  of  the 
whip!  you  turn  the  corner  of  a  cliff  and  drive  across 
a  bridge:  instantly  there  arises  the  deafening  roar 
of  many  waterfalls  rushing  madly  upon  one  another; 
the  torrent,  escaping  with  a  furious  bound,  breaks 
into  a  score  of  cascades,  falls,  and  is  shattered  upon 
a  thousand  jagged  rocks ;  it  rushes  in  innumerable 
sparkling  sheaves  of  foam  over  a  boulder  that  has 
fallen  from  the  summit  of  the  ridge  that  overhangs 
the  valley,  into  the  very  centre  of  the  road  which 
water,  the  most  venerable  of  all  living  forces,  has 
imperiously  hewed  out  for  itself. 

If  you  have  grasped  the  salient  features  of  this 
landscape,  you  will  recognize  in  the  placid  stream 
an  image  of  Emilio's  love  for  the  duchess,  and  in 
the  cascades  leaping  from  rock  to  rock  like  a  flock 
of  sheep  an  image  of  his  night  of  love  with  La  Tinti. 
Amid  these  torrents  of  love,  there  rose  a  rock  against 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  131 

which  the  flood  broke.  The  prince  was  like  Sisyphus, 
always  under  the  rock. 

"What  is  it  that  Duke  Cataneo  does  with  his 
violin?"  he  said  to  himself;  "am  I  indebted  to  him 
for  this  symphony?" 

He  broached  the  subject  to  Clara  Tinti. 

"  Dear  child  " — she  had  discovered  that  the  prince 
was  a  child — "  dear  child,"  she  said,  "this  man,  who 
is  a  hundred  and  eighteen  years  old  on  the  registers 
of  Vice,  and  forty-seven  according  to  the  records  of 
the  Church,  has  but  one  last  means  of  enjoyment  on 
earth  which  is  capable  of  arousing  in  him  a  sense  of 
life.  Yes,  all  the  chords  are  broken,  everything  is 
a  ruin  or  a  tattered  rag;  the  mind,  the  intelligence, 
the  heart,  the  nerves,  all  that  produces  an  impulse 
in  man  and  gives  him  a  glimpse  of  heaven  through 
desire  or  the  fire  of  pleasure,  depends  not  so  much 
upon  music  as  upon  one  of  the  innumerable  effects 
of  music,  a  perfect  harmony  between  two  voices,  or 
between  one  voice  and  the  first  string  of  his  violin. 
The  old  monkey  sits  on  my  knee  and  takes  his  vio- 
lin; he  plays  well  enough,  he  produces  sounds  with 
it;  I  try  to  imitate  them,  and  when  the  longed-for 
moment  arrives,  and  it  is  impossible  to  distinguish 
the  note  of  the  violin  from  the  note  that  issues  from 
my  windpipe,  then  the  old  fellow  is  in  an  ecstasy, 
his  dead  eyes  emit  their  last  flames,  he  is  deliriously 
happy,  and  rolls  on  the  floor  like  a  drunken  man. 
That  is  why  he  pays  Genovese  so  handsomely. 
Genovese  is  the  only  tenor  whose  voice  sometimes 
coincides  exactly  with  mine.  Either  we  do  really 


132  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

approach  that  point  once  or  twice  in  an  evening,  or 
the  duke  imagines  it;  and  for  this  imaginary  pleas- 
ure he  has  engaged  Genovese;  Genovese  belongs  to 
him.  No  theatrical  manager  can  engage  the  tenor 
to  sing  without  me,  or  me  without  him.  The  duke 
educated  me  to  gratify  this  whim,  and  I  owe  to  him 
my  talent,  my  beauty,  and  doubtless  my  fortune. 
He  will  die  in  some  spasm  caused  by  a  perfect  ac- 
cord. The  sense  of  hearing  is  the  only  one  that  has 
survived  in  the  shipwreck  of  his  faculties,  that  is 
the  thread  by  which  he  clings  to  life.  The  decayed 
stump  puts  forth  a  vigorous  shoot.  There  are  many 
men  in  that  condition,  so  I  am  told;  may  the  Madonna 
protect  them!  But  you're  not  one  of  that  sort!  You 
can  do  whatever  you  choose  and  whatever  1  choose, 
1  am  sure." 


Toward  morning,  Prince  Emilio  stole  softly  from 
the  room  and  found  Carmagnola  lying  across  the 
doorway. 

"Highness,"  said  the  gondolier,  "the  duchess 
commanded  me  to  give  you  this  note." 

He  handed  his  master  a  dainty  little  paper  folded 
in  a  triangle.  The  prince  felt  that  his  senses  were 
failing  him;  he  returned  to  the  room  and  sank  upon 
a  couch,  for  his  sight  was  troubled  and  his  hands 
trembled  as  he  read : 

"DEAR  EMILIO: 

"  Your  gondola  stopped  at  your  palace ;  do  you  not  know 
that  Cataneo  has  hired  it  for  La  Tinti  ?  If  you  love  me,  go 
this  very  evening  to  Vendramin,  who  tells  me  that  he  has 
arranged  a  room  for  you  in  his  house.  What  am  I  to  do? 
Must  I  remain  at  Venice  to  be  confronted  by  my  husband 
and  his  singer?  Shall  we  return  together  to  Frioul  ?  Answer 
me  with  a  word,  were  it  only  to  tell  me  what  letter  it  was  that 
you  threw  into  the  canal. 

"MASSIMILLA  DONI." 

The  writing  and  the  perfume  of  the  paper  awoke 
a  thousand  memories  in  the  young  Venetian's  heart. 
The  sun  of  his  only  love  cast  its  bright  gleam  upon 
the  blue  wave  which  had  come  from  afar,  collected 
from  the  bottomless  deeps,  and  which  sparkled  like 
a  star.  The  noble  youth  could  not  restrain  the  tears 
which  gushed  from  his  eyes  in  streams;  for  in  the 
(133) 


134  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

languor  caused  by  his  sated  passions  he  was  with- 
out strength  against  the  touch  of  that  spotless 
divinity.  Clarina  heard  his  sobs  in  her  sleep;  she 
sat  up  in  bed,  saw  her  prince  in  a  grief-stricken 
attitude,  and  threw  herself  at  his  knees  and  kissed 
them. 

"  She  is  still  awaiting  a  reply,"  said  Carmagnola, 
raising  the  portiere. 

"  Infamous  wretch,  you  have  ruined  me!"  cried 
Emilio,  rising,  and  spurning  La  Tinti  with  his  foot. 

She  embraced  him  so  passionately,  imploring  an 
explanation  by  a  glance,  the  glance  of  a  weeping 
Samaritan,  that  Emilio,  frantic  at  finding  himself 
still  entangled  in  the  passion  which  had  caused  his 
degradation,  repulsed  the  singer  with  a  brutal  kick. 

"You  told  me  to  kill  you — die,  poisonous  beast!" 
he  shouted. 

Then  he  rushed  from  the  palace,  and  leaped  into 
his  gondola. 

"  Row!"  he  cried  to  Carmagnola. 

"Where?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"Wherever  you  choose." 

The  gondolier  divined  his  master's  meaning,  and 
guided  his  craft,  by  innumerable  detours,  to  the 
Canareggio,  before  the  door  of  a  marvellously  beau- 
tiful palace,  which  you  will  admire  when  you  go  to 
Venice;  for  no  stranger  ever  failed  to  order  his  gon- 
dola to  pause  at  sight  of  those  windows  all  differ- 
ently decorated,  each  more  fanciful  than  the  others, 
with  balconies  of  ironwork  carved  like  the  most 
ethereal  laces;  at  sight  of  the  corners  of  the  palace, 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  135 

terminating  in  tall,  slender,  twisted  columns;  at  sight 
of  the  courses  of  stone,  carved  by  a  chisel  so  capri- 
cious that  one  can  find  no  figure  repeated  in  all  the 
arabesques.  How  pretty  the  door  is,  and  how  mys- 
terious the  long  arched  passage  which  leads  to  the 
staircase!  And  who  could  fail  to  admire  those  steps, 
whereon  intelligent  art  has  laid,  in  anticipation  of 
the  time  when  Venice  will  live  again,  a  carpet  as 
rich  as  a  Turkey  carpet,  but  consisting  of  stones  of 
innumerable  shapes,  inlaid  in  white  marble!  You 
will  be  charmed  by  the  fascinating  fanciful  designs 
of  the  decoration  of  the  arches,  which  are  gilded  like 
those  in  the  ducal  palace,  and  which  glide  away 
above  you,  so  that  the  marvels  of  art  are  under 
your  feet  and  over  your  head.  What  soothing 
shadows,  what  silence,  what  refreshing  coolness! 
But  what  solemnity,  too,  in  that  old  palace,  where, 
to  please  Emilio,  as  well  as  his  friend  Vendramin, 
the  duchess  had  collected  much  old  Venetian  furni- 
ture, and  where  skilful  hands*  had  restored  the  ceil- 
ings! There  Venice  lived  anew.  Not  only  was  the 
magnificence  there  displayed  noble  and  imposing,  it 
was  instructive  too.  The  archaeologist  would  have 
found  there  typical  examples  of  the  beautiful  as  pro- 
duced in  the  Middle  Ages,  which  went  to  Venice  for 
their  patterns.  There  one  could  see  the  first  board 
ceilings  covered  with  flower  designs  in  gold  on  a 
colored  background,  or  in  colors  on  a  gold  back- 
ground, and  the  ceilings  of  gilded  stucco  in  which 
there  was  a  scene  with  several  characters  in  each 
corner  and  the  loveliest  frescoes  in  the  centre:  a 


136  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

style  so  ruinously  extravagant  that  the  Louvre  pos- 
sesses but  two,  and  the  magnificence  of  Louis  XIV. 
took  fright  at  the  thought  of  such  a  lavish  outlay  for 
Versailles.  On  all  sides  were  objects  of  great  value 
into  whose  composition  entered  marble,  wood,  or 
rich  fabrics. 

Emilio  opened  a  carved  oaken  door,  crossed  the 
long  gallery  which  runs  from  end  to  end  of  the  pal- 
aces in  Venice  on  each  floor,  and  reached  another 
well-known  door  which  made  his  heart  beat  fast. 
On  his  appearance,  the  duchess's  companion  came 
forth  from  a  vast  salon  and  ushered  him  into  a  study, 
where  he  found  the  duchess  on  her  knees  before  a 
Madonna.  He  had  come  to  confess  and  ask  forgive- 
ness. The  sight  of  Massimilla  praying  transformed 
him.  He  and  God,  naught  else,  in  that  heart!  The 
duchess  rose  unaffectedly,  and  offered  her  hand  to 
her  lover,  who  did  not  take  it. 

"  Pray,  did  not  Gianbattista  find  you  yesterday?" 
she  said. 

"  No,"  was  his  reply. 

"  That  ill-luck  caused  me  to  pass  a  cruel  night! 
I  was  so  afraid  that  you  would  meet  the  duke,  whose 
perverse  character  I  know  so  well !  What  an  idea 
of  Vendramin's  to  let  your  palace  to  him!" 

"An  excellent  idea,  Milla,  for  your  prince  is  far 
from  rich." 

Massimilla  was  so  beautiful  in  her  confidence,  so 
magnificent  in  her  beauty,  so  soothed  by  Emilio's 
presence,  that,  at  that  moment,  Emilio,  wide  awake 
as  he  was,  felt  the  sensations  of  the  painful  dream 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  137 

which  torments  all  vivid  imaginations:  the  dream 
in  which,  after  arriving  at  a  ball  attended  by  many 
handsomely-dressed  women,  the  dreamer  suddenly 
finds  that  he  is  naked,  without  even  a  shirt;  shame 
and  fear  scourge  him  in  turn,  and  not  until  he  wakes 
is  he  freed  from  his  agony.  Emilio's  mind  was  in 
that  condition  in  his  mistress's  presence.  Hitherto 
it  had  been  clad  in  the  fairest  flowers  of  sentiment; 
lust  had  reduced  it  to  an  ignoble  plight,  and  he  alone 
knew  it;  for  the  lovely  Florentine  attributed  so  much 
virtue  to  her  love,  that  the  man  whom  she  loved 
must  be  incapable  of  incurring  the  slightest  stain. 
As  Emilio  had  not  accepted  her  hand,  the  durhess 
rose  and  ran  her  fingers  through  the  hair  La  Tinti 
had  kissed.  Thereupon  she  felt  that  Emilio's  hand 
was  moist,  and  that  his  forehead  was  wet  with 
perspiration. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked  in  a  voice  to 
which  affection  gave  the  softness  of  a  flute. 

"  Never  until  this  moment  have  I  realized  the 
depth  of  my  love,"  Emilio  replied. 

"Well,  dear  idol,  what  is  your  will?"  said  she. 

At  these  words,  all  of  Emilio's  blood  flowed  back 
into  his  heart. 

"  What  have  I  done  to  lead  her  to  that  phrase?" 
he  thought. 

"  What  letter  was  that  you  threw  into  the  lagoon, 
Emilio?" 

"  Vendramin's,  which  I  had  not  finished;  if  I  had, 
I  should  not  have  met  the  duke  in  my  palace,  for  the 
letter  undoubtedly  told  me  of  the  lease." 


138  MASSIMILLA  DONI 

Massimilla  turned  pale,  but  was  reassured  by  a 
gesture  from  Emilio. 

"  Stay  with  me  all  day;  we  will  go  to  the  theatre 
together;  let  us  not  go  to  Frioul,  your  presence  will 
help  me  to  endure  Cataneo's,"  said  Massimilla. 

Although  it  was  sure  to  be  a  season  of  unremitting 
mental  torture  for  the  lover,  he  consented  with  ap- 
parent delight.  If  anything  can  convey  an  idea  of 
what  the  damned  feel  when  they  find  how  unworthy 
they  are  of  God's  indulgence,  is  it  not  the  plight  of 
a  young  man  still  pure  at  heart,  in  presence  of  a 
revered  mistress,  when  he  has  upon  his  lips  the 
taste  of  an  act  of  infidelity,  when  he  brings  into 
the  sanctuary  of  his  beloved  divinity  the  poisoned 
atmosphere  of  a  courtesan?  Baader,  who  in  his 
lessons  explained  celestial  things  by  erotic  com- 
parisons, had  doubtless  noticed,  with  the  Catholic 
writers,  the  great  resemblance  between  human  love 
and  the  love  of  Heaven.  His  suffering  from  this 
source  cast  a  tinge  of  melancholy  upon  the  pleasure  of 
the  Venetian  in  being  with  his  mistress.  A  woman's 
heart  possesses  an  incredible  aptitude  for  bringing 
itself  into  harmony  with  her  sentiments;  she  as- 
sumes her  lover's  colors,  she  vibrates  with  the  note 
a  lover  strikes;  therefore  the  duchess  became  thought- 
ful. The  irritating  appetite  kindled  by  the  salt  of 
coquetry  is  very  far  from  spurring  love  onward  so 
vigorously  as  this  sweet  conformity  of  emotions. 
The  efforts  of  coquetry  point  too  clearly  to  a  sep- 
aration, and  a  separation,  even  though  but  momen- 
tary, is  not  pleasing;  whereas  this  sympathetic 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  139 

sharing  of  emotions  denotes  the  constant  fusion  of 
two  hearts.  Thus  poor  Emilio  was  moved  by  the 
silent  divination  which  caused  the  duchess  to  weep 
over  an  unknown  offence.  Feeling  stronger  when 
she  saw  that  she  was  not  attacked  on  the  sensual 
side  of  love,  the  duchess  could  venture  to  be  caress- 
ing; she  laid  bare  her  angelic  mind  boldly  and  with 
confidence,  just  as  the  passionate  La  Tinti  during 
that  diabolical  night  had  displayed  her  body  with  its 
rounded  outlines,  its  firm,  pliant  flesh.  In  Emilio's 
eyes,  there  was  a  sort  of  duel  between  the  holy  love 
of  this  snow-white  soul  and  the  love  of  the  nervous 
and  excitable  Sicilian. 

Thus  the  day  passed  in  long,  searching  glances 
exchanged  after  profound  reflections.  Each  of  them 
sounded  the  depth  of  his  own  affection,  and  found  it 
infinite — hence  a  feeling  of  security  which  suggested 
tender  words. 

Modesty,  that  divinity  which,  in  a  moment  of  heed- 
less trifling  with  Love,  gave  birth  to  Coquetry,  need 
not  have  placed  her  hand  over  her  eyes  at  sight  of 
these  two  lovers.  Their  self-indulgence,  their  pleas- 
ure, went  no  further  than  this:  Massimilla  held 
Emilio's  head  upon  her  breast,  and  ventured  now 
and  then  to  press  her  lips  upon  his,  but  as  a  bird 
dips  its  beak  in  the  pure  water  of  a  spring,  looking 
timidly  about  to  see  if  it  is  observed.  Their  thoughts 
developed  that  kiss,  as  a  musician  develops  a  theme 
by  the  countless  methods  of  music,  and  it  produced 
within  them  tumultuous,  echoing  waves  of  sound, 
which  set  their  blood  on  fire.  Certain  it  is  that  the 


140  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

idea  will  always  surpass  the  fact;  otherwise  desire 
would  fall  short  of  pleasure,  and  it  is,  in  fact,  more 
powerful,  it  engenders  it.  Thus  they  were  entirely 
happy,  for  enjoyment  of  happiness  will  always  di- 
minish happiness.  Married  only  in  heaven,  these 
two  lovers  admired  each  other  in  the  purest  of  all 
forms,  that  of  two  hearts  enkindled  and  joined  to- 
gether in  the  divine  light,  a  radiant  spectacle  to  the 
eyes  which'  faith  has  touched,  especially  fertile  in 
such  boundless  joys  as  the  brush  of  the  Raphaels, 
the  Titians,  the  Murillos  has  succeeded  in  depicting, 
such  joys  as  those  who  have  known  them  feel  anew 
at  sight  of  the  works  of  those  artists.  The  grosser 
forms  of  pleasure,  which  the  Sicilian  woman  lav- 
ished so  generously, — a  material  proof  of  this  angelic 
union, — should  surely  be  despised  by  superior  minds, 
should  they  not? 

These  noble  thoughts  passed  through  the  prince's 
mind  as  he  lay  in  a  sort  of  divine  languor  on  Massi- 
milla's  cool,  white,  yielding  breast,  beneath  the  warm 
rays  of  her  eyes  with  their  long,  glistening  lashes, 
and  he  lost  himself  in  the  infinite  expanse  of  that 
libertinage  of  the  imagination.  At  such  moments, 
Massimilla  became  one  of  those  celestial  virgins  of 
whom  we  catch  glimpses  in  dreams,  who  disappear 
at  cock-crow,  but  whom  we  recognize  in  their  lumi- 
nous spheres  in  certain  works  of  the  glorious  painters 
of  the  heavens. 

In  the  evening,  the  lovers  went  to  the  theatre.  So 
goes  life  in  Italy:  love  in  the  morning,  music  in  the 
evening,  sleep  at  night.  How  vastly  preferable  such 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  141 

a  life  is  to  that  of  the  countries  where  people  employ 
all  their  lungs  and  all  their  strength  in  political  in- 
triguing, with  no  more  power  to  change  the  course 
of  affairs  by  themselves  than  a  grain  of  sand  has  to 
make  a  cloud  of  dust.  In  those  strange  countries, 
liberty  consists  in  disputing  over  public  affairs,  in 
looking  out  for  one's  self,  in  wasting  one's  strength 
in  innumerable  public  employments,  each  more  idiotic 
than  the  rest  in  that  they  all  mark  a  departure  from 
the  noble  and  sacred  egotism  which  gives  birth  to  all 
great  human  achievements.  At  Venice,  on  the  other 
hand,  love  and  its  innumerable  threads,  a  soothing 
absorption  in  genuine  enjoyment,  takes  possession 
of  the  time  and  encompasses  it.  In  that  country, 
love  is  so  natural  a  thing  that  the  duchess  was 
looked  upon  as  an  extraordinary  woman,  for  every- 
one had  an  abiding  conviction  of  her  chastity,  despite 
the  violence  of  Emilio's  passion.  Wherefore  the 
women  sincerely  pitied  the  poor  young  man  who 
was  considered  to  be  the  victim  of  the  sanctity  of 
his  beloved. 

But  no  one  dared  blame  the  duchess;  for  in  Italy 
religion  is  a  power  as  deeply  venerated  as  love. 

Every  evening  at  the  theatre  the  lorgnettes  were 
levelled  at  La  Cataneo's  box  first  of  all,  and  every 
woman  said  to  her  escort,  indicating  the  duchess  and 
her  lover: 

"  At  what  stage  have  they  arrived?" 

The  escort  would  scrutinize  Emilio,  seek  some  in- 
dications of  happiness  on  his  face,  and  find  naught 
save  the  expression  of  a  pure  and  melancholy  love. 


142  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

Thereupon  the  men  would  say  to  the  women,  as 
they  visited  one  box  after  another: 

"  La  Cataneo  is  not  Emilio's  as  yet." 

"  She  is  making  a  mistake,"  the  old  women  would 
reply,  "she  will  tire  him  out." 

Forse!  was  the  favorite  retort  of  the  younger 
women,  with  the  solemn  air  which  Italians  assume 
when  they  use  that  impressive  word,  which  means 
a  great  many  things. 

Some  women  would  lose  their  patience,  declare 
that  it  was  a  bad  precedent,  and  that  it  showed  a 
misapprehension  of  religion  to  allow  it  to  stifle  love. 

"You  should  love  Emilio,  my  dear,"  said  La  Vul- 
pato  to  the  duchess,  happening  to  meet  her  on  the 
stairway  at  the  close  of  the  performance. 

"Why,  I  do  love  him  with  all  my  strength,"  she 
replied. 

"  Then  why  doesn't  he  look  happier?" 

The  duchess  replied  with  a  slight  movement  of 
her  shoulders. 

Here  in  France,  under  the  influence  of  the  con- 
stantly increasing  mania  for  English  manners  and 
customs,  we  cannot  form  an  idea  of  the  seriousness 
with  which  Venetian  society  conducts  an  investigation 
of  this  sort.  Vendramin  alone  knew  Emilio's  secret, 
a  secret  well  kept  by  two  men  who  had  joined  their 
crests,  placing  above  them  the  words:  Non  amici, 
fratres. 

The  opening  of  a  season  is  an  important  event  in 
Venice  as  in  all  the  other  Italian  capitals;  so  that  La 
Fenice  was  full  to  overflowing  that  evening.  The 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  143 

five  evening  hours  passed  at  the  theatre  play  so 
great  a  part  in  Italian  life,  that  it  will  not  be  amiss 
to  explain  the  customs  arising  from  this  method  of 
employing  the  time. 

In  Italy,  the  boxes  differ  from  those  in  other  coun- 
tries, in  this  respect,  that  elsewhere  women  wish 
to  be  seen,  while  the  Italian  women  care  but  little 
about  putting  themselves  on  exhibition.  The  boxes 
are  oblong,  running  diagonally  with  respect  to  the 
stage  and  the  corridor  alike.  At  the  right  and  left 
are  couches,  and  at  the  end  of  each  couch  an  easy- 
chair,  one  for  the  mistress  of  the  box,  the  other  for 
her  female  companion,  when  she  has  one.  Such  is 
rarely  the  case.  Every  woman  is  too  much  occupied 
in  her  own  box  to  pay  visits  or  to  care  to  receive 
them;  nor  do  they  care  to  set  up  a  rival  to  them- 
selves. Thus  an  Italian  woman  almost  always 
reigns  alone  in  her  box;  there,  mothers  are  not 
their  daughters'  slaves,  daughters  are  not  embar- 
rassed by  their  mothers;  in  short,  the  women  have 
with  them  neither  children  nor  parents  to  censure 
them,  spy  upon  them,  bore  them,  or  mingle  in  their 
conversations.  The  front  of  all  the  boxes  is  draped 
in  silk  of  the  same  color  and  in  the  same  style. 
From  this  drapery  hang  curtains  of  the  same  color, 
which  are  kept  drawn  when  the  family  to  whom  the 
box  belongs  is  in  mourning.  With  few  exceptions, 
and  those  at  Milan,  the  boxes  are  not  lighted  inside; 
they  obtain  their  light  from  the  stage,  or  from  a  by 
no  means  brilliant  chandelier  which,  despite  vehe- 
ment protests,  some  cities  have  allowed  to  be  placed 


144  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

in  the  house;  but,  thanks  to  the  curtains,  the  boxes 
are  still  quite  dark,  and,  owing  to  the  way  in  which 
they  are  arranged,  the  shadows  are  so  deep  at  the 
rear  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  see  what  is  going  on 
there.  These  boxes,  which  are  large  enough  to 
hold  eight  or  ten  persons,  are  hung  with  rich  silks, 
the  ceilings  are  prettily  painted  and  brightened  by 
the  use  of  light  colors,  and  the  woodwork  is  gilded. 
Ices  and  sherbets  are  served  to  the  occupants, 
or  they  nibble  at  sweetmeats,  for  only  the  middle 
classes  continue  the  old  practice  of  dining  at  the 
theatre.  Each  box  is  a  parcel  of  real  estate  of 
considerable  value;  they  are  worth  about  thirty 
thousand  lire;  the  Litta  family,  at  Milan,  own  three 
adjoining  ones. 

These  facts  will  serve  to  show  the  great  impor- 
tance attached  to  this  detail  of  a  life  of  leisure. 
Conversation  is  absolute  monarch  in  these  enclo- 
sures, which  one  of  the  most  ingenious  writers  of  our 
day,  and  one  of  those  who  have  studied  Italy  most 
carefully,  Stendhal,  calls  small  salons  with  windows 
looking  on  the  parterre.*  In  fact,  music  and  scenic 
illusions  are  purely  accessories;  the  absorbing  inter- 
est attaches  to  the  conversations  that  are  carried 
on,  to  the  great  petty  affairs  of  the  heart  which  are 
discussed,  to  the  appointments  which  are  made,  to 
the  gossip  and  remarks  which  are  exchanged.  The 
theatre  is  an  inexpensive  gathering  of  a  whole 
society,  scrutinizing  itself  and  amusing  itself  with 
its  own  failings. 

*  Parterre  has  the  double  meaning  of  pit— in  a  theatre — and  flower-garden. 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  145 

The  men  who  are  admitted  to  the  box  take  their 
places  one  after  another,  in  the  order  of  their  arrival, 
on  one  or  the  other  sofa.  The  first  comer  naturally 
seats  himself  next  the  mistress  of  the  box;  but  when 
both  sofas  are  occupied,  if  a  third  visitor  arrives, 
the  one  who  came  first  breaks  off  the  conversation, 
rises,  and  takes  his  leave.  Thereupon  each  one  goes 
forward  a  place  until  he  in  turn  reaches  the  seat  of 
honor  by  his  sovereign.  This  aimless  chatter,  these 
serious  conversations,  this  airy  persiflage  of  Italian 
life,  could  not  go  on  without  a  general  absence  of 
constraint.  For  instance,  the  women  may  appear  in 
full  dress  or  not,  as  they  choose;  they  are  so  entirely 
at  home,  that  a  stranger  who  is  admitted  to  their  box 
is  at  liberty  to  call  at  their  house  on  the  following 
day.  The  traveller  finds  it  difficult  to  comprehend 
at  first  this  life  of  intelligent  idleness,  this  dolce  far 
niente  embellished  with  music.  Only  a  long  sojourn 
in  Italy,  and  a  faculty  of  keen  observation,  will  re- 
veal to  a  stranger  the  meaning  of  Italian  life,  which 
resembles  the  pure  sky  of  the  country,  and  which 
the  wealthy  seek  to  preserve  unclouded.  The  noble- 
man gives  little  thought  to  the  management  of  his 
fortune;  he  leaves  the  administration  of  his  property 
to  intendants, — ragionati, — who  rob  him  and  ruin 
him;  his  life  is  devoid  of  the  political  element,  which 
would  soon  become  a  bore  to  him ;  and  so  he  lives 
solely  by  passion  and  with  passion,  his  hours  are 
well  filled.  Hence  the  need  which  lovers  feel  of 
being  always  together  in  order  to  satisfy  each  other, 
or  to  assure  their  hold  upon  each  other;  for  the 

10 


146  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

great  secret  of  this  life  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  lover 
is  for  five  hours  in  the  evening  under  the  eyes  of 
the  woman  with  whom  he  has  passed  the  morning. 
Italian  customs,  therefore,  demand  constant  enjoy- 
ment, and  involve  a  study  of  the  probable  means 
of  keeping  it  alive,  yet  hidden  beneath  apparent  in- 
difference. It  is  a  delightful  life,  but  a  costly  one, 
for  in  no  other  country  do  we  meet  so  many  debili- 
tated men. 

The  duchess's  box  was  on  the  ground-floor,  which 
is  called  pepiano  in  Venice;  she  always  seated  her- 
self in  such  a  position  that  the  light  from  the  foot- 
lights fell  upon  her,  and  her  lovely  head  stood  clearly 
forth  in  the  soft  light  against  the  shadows  behind 
her.  The  Florentine  attracted  the  eye  by  her  noble 
snow-white  brow  crowned  by  the  coils  of  black  hair 
which  gave  her  a  truly  regal  bearing;  by  the  refine- 
ment of  her  features,  which  recalled  the  sweet  dig- 
nity of  Andrea  del  Sarto's  faces;  by  the  shape  of 
her  face,  and  the  circle  of  her  eyes;  and  by  those 
velvet  eyes  themselves,  which  communicated  the 
charm  of  the  woman  dreaming  of  happiness,  still 
pure  in  love,  at  once  majestic  and  lovely. 

Instead  of  Moses,  in  which  La  Tinti  was  to  have 
made  her  debut  with  Genovese,  they  gave  //  Bar- 
biere,  in  which  the  tenor  sang  without  the  famous 
prima-donna.  The  impresario  had  announced  that 
he  was  compelled  to  change  the  programme  because 
of  La  Tinti's  indisposition,  and  it  was  a  fact  that 
Duke  Cataneo  did  not  come  to  the  theatre.  Was  it 
an  adroit  scheme  on  the  impresario's  part  to  obtain 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  147 

two  full  houses  by  having  Genovese  and  Clarina 
make  their  debuts  separately,  or  was  La  Tinti's 
alleged  indisposition  genuine?  As  to  this  question, 
which  the  pit  was  justified  in  discussing,  Emilio 
could  have  little  doubt;  but  although  the  news  of 
her  illness  caused  him  some  remorse  when  he  re- 
membered her  beauty  and  his  own  brutality,  her 
absence  and  the  duke's  made  the  prince  and  the 
duchess  alike  tranquil  in  their  minds.  Moreover, 
Genovese  sang  in  a  fashion  to  dispel  the  nocturnal 
memories  of  impure  love  and  to  prolong  the  heavenly 
joys  of  that  delightful  day.  Overjoyed  to  have  all 
the  applause  to  himself,  the  tenor  displayed  all  the 
marvellous  resources  of  that  talent  which  subse- 
quently achieved  a  European  reputation.  Geno- 
vese, at  this  time  twenty-three  years  of  age,  a 
native  of  Bergamo  and  a  pupil  of  Veluti,  passionately 
enamored  of  his  art,  with  a  good  figure  and  an  at- 
tractive face,  and  quick  to  grasp  the  spirit  of  his 
roles,  already  gave  promise  of  the  great  artist,  des- 
tined to  acquire  renown  and  great  wealth.  He  won 
an  insane  triumph,  an  adjective  that  can  justifiably 
be  used  in  Italy  alone,  where  there  is  an  indescrib- 
able touch  of  frenzy  in  the  gratitude  of  the  pit  to 
anyone  who  affords  it  pleasure. 

Some  of  the  prince's  friends  came  to  congratulate 
him  on  his  inheritance  and  to  retail  the  news  of  the 
day.  On  the  preceding  evening,  Duke  Cataneo  had 
taken  La  Tinti  to  a  party  given  by  La  Vulpato,  where 
she  had  sung,  and  where  her  health  had  seemed 
to  be  as  good  as  her  voice  was  beautiful;  thus  her 


148  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

improvised  illness  caused  much  earnest  discussion. 
According  to  the  reports  in  circulation  at  the  Cafe 
Florian,  Genovese  was  madly  in  love  with  La  Tinti; 
La  Tinti  wished  to  avoid  his  declarations  of  love,  and 
the  manager  had  been  unable  to  induce  them  to  ap- 
pear together.  According  to  the  Austrian  general, 
the  duke  was  ill,  La  Tinti  was  nursing  him,  and 
Genovese  was  entrusted  with  the  duty  of  consoling 
the  pit.  The  duchess  was  indebted  for  the  general's 
visit  to  the  arrival  of  a  French  physician  whom  he 
wished  to  introduce  to  her. 

The  prince,  noticing  Vendramin  prowling  about 
the  pit,  left  the  box  to  enjoy  a  confidential  conver- 
sation with  his  friend,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
three  months;  and  as  they  walked  back  and  forth 
in  the  space  always  found  between  the  pit  benches 
and  ground-floor  boxes  of  Italian  theatres,  he  was  able 
to  observe  the  duchess's  greeting  of  the  stranger. 

"  Who  is  that  Frenchman?"  he  asked  Vendramin. 

"A  doctor  whom  Cataneo  summoned  by  letter; 
he  wants  to  know  how  much  longer  he  can  hope  to 
live.  The  Frenchman  is  waiting  for  Malfatti,  with 
whom  he  is  to  have  a  consultation." 

Like  all  Italian  women  who  are  in  love,  the  duchess 
did  not  once  remove  her  eyes  from  Emilio;  for,  in 
that  country,  a  woman's  self-abandonment  is  so  ab- 
solute that  it  is  very  hard  to  detect  an  expressive 
glance  turned  in  any  other  direction  than  toward  its 
source. 

"Caro,"  said  the  prince  to  Vendramin,  "  remember 
that  I  slept  at  your  house  last  night." 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  149 

"Have  you  conquered?"  asked  Vendramin,  put- 
ting his  arm  about  his  friend's  waist. 

"No,"  Emilio  replied,  "but  I  believe  that  I  may 
be  happy  with  Massimilla  some  day." 

"  In  that  case,"  rejoined  Marco,  "  you  will  be  the 
most  enviable  man  in  the  world.  The  duchess  is 
the  most  accomplished  woman  in  Italy.  To  me,  who 
see  earthly  things  through  the  glowing  vapors  of 
intoxication  by  opium,  she  appears  as  the  loftiest 
expression  of  art,  for  nature  has  unwittingly  pro- 
duced in  her  a  portrait  by  Raphael.  Your  passion 
is  not  displeasing  to  Cataneo,  who  counted  down 
the  full  thousand  crowns,  which  I  have  for  you." 

"And  so,"  said  Emilio,  "whatever  anyone  may 
say,  I  sleep  at  your  house  every  night.  Come,  for 
a  minute  apart  from  her,  when  I  can  be  with  her, 
is  perfect  torture." 

Emilio  took  his  place  at  the  back  of  the  box,  and 
sat  silent  in  his  corner,  listening  to  the  duchess, 
enjoying  her  wit  and  her  beauty.  It  was  for  him, 
and  not  from  vanity,  that  Massimilla  put  forth  all 
the  charms  of  her  conversation,  abounding  in  Italian 
wit,  in  which  sarcasm  was  aimed  at  things,  not  at 
persons,  in  which  ridicule  smote  ridiculous  senti- 
ments, in  which  the  Attic  salt  imparted  a  flavor  to 
trifles.  Elsewhere,  La  Cataneo  might  have  been 
tiresome;  the  Italians,  an  eminently  intelligent  race, 
are  not  fond  of  straining  their  intelligence  without 
occasion;  among  them  conversation  flows  smoothly 
and  without  effort;  it  never  implies,  as  in  France,  a 
fencing-school  bout,  in  which  everyone  brandishes 


150  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

his  foil,  and  in  which  the  man  who  has  not  been 
able  to  say  a  word  is  humiliated.  If  their  conver- 
sation emits  an  occasional  gleam,  it  is  by  virtue  of  a 
kindly  and  voluptuous  irony  which  sports  gracefully 
with  well-known  facts;  and,  instead  of  an  epigram, 
which  may  have  a  compromising  effect,  the  Italians 
exchange  a  glance  or  smile  of  indescribably  subtle 
meaning.  To  be  called  upon  to  interpret  ideas  when 
they  have  come  in  quest  of  enjoyment,  is  considered 
by  them,  and  justly,  too,  a  bore. 

"  If  you  loved  him,  you  would  not  talk  so  well," 
said  La  Vulpato  to  the  duchess. 

Emilio  never  mingled  in  the  conversation,  he  lis- 
tened and  watched.  This  reserve  might  have  led 
foreigners  to  believe  that  the  prince  was  a  man  of 
no  intelligence, — a  judgment  that  they  commonly 
form  of  Italians  who  are  in  love, — whereas  he  was 
simply  a  lover  buried  in  happiness  up  to  the  neck. 
Vendramin  sat  beside  the  prince,  facing  the  French- 
man, who,  being  a  stranger,  retained  his  place  in  the 
corner  opposite  the  chair  occupied  by  the  duchess. 

"  Is  yonder  gentleman  intoxicated?"  the  physician 
asked  Massimilla  in  an  undertone,  with  his  eyes  upon 
Vendramin. 

"  Yes,"  La  Cataneo  replied  simply. 

In  that  land  of  passion,  every  passion  carries  with  it 
its  own  excuse,  and  all  shortcomings  are  treated  with 
adorable  indulgence.  The  duchess  sighed  heavily, 
and  her  face  betrayed  the  grief  she  strove  to  conceal. 

"  In  our  country,  strange  things  happen,  monsieur! 
Vendramin  lives  on  opium,  one  man  lives  on  love, 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  151 

another  buries  himself  in  science,  the  majority  of 
wealthy  young  men  fall  in  love  with  a  dancer,  wise 
men  hoard  their  money:  we  all  seek  happiness  or 
intoxication  one  way  or  another." 

"  Because  you  all  seek  to  divert  your  thoughts 
from  a  fixed  idea,  which  a  revolution  would  radically 
cure,"  rejoined  the  physician.  "  The  Genoese  re- 
grets his  republic,  the  Milanese  sighs  for  his  inde- 
pendence, the  Piedmontese  aspires  to  constitutional 
government,  the  Roman  desires  liberty — " 

"Which  he  does  not  understand,"  interposed  the 
duchess.  "Alas!  there  are  provinces  insane  enough 
to  sigh  for  your  absurd  Charter,  which  destroys  the 
influence  of  women.  Most  of  my  compatriots  like  to 
read  your  French  productions,  worthless  trash — " 

"Worthless!"  cried  the  physician. 

"Why,  monsieur,"  retorted  the  duchess,  "what 
can  we  find  in  books  that  is  better  than  what  we 
have  in  our  hearts?  Italy  is  mad !" 

"  I  do  not  see  that  a  people  is  mad  because  it 
wishes  to  be  its  own  master." 

"Great  God!"  rejoined  the  duchess,  earnestly, 
"  is  that  anything  more  than  purchasing  with  much 
blood  the  right  to  quarrel,  as  you  do,  for  foolish 
ideas?" 

"You  love  despotism!"  exclaimed  the  physician. 

"  Why  should  I  not  love  a  system  of  government 
which,  while  depriving  us  of  books  and  nauseating 
politics,  leaves  us  our  men  all  to  ourselves?" 

"  I  thought  the  Italians  were  more  patriotic,"  said 
the  Frenchman. 


152  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

The  duchess  laughed  so  slyly  that  her  questioner 
could  not  distinguish  raillery  from  truth,  or  serious 
opinions  from  satirical  criticism. 

"  You  are  not  a  liberal,  then?"  he  said. 

"God  forbid!"  she  replied.  "I  can  imagine 
nothing  in  worse  taste  than  for  a  woman  to  enter- 
tain opinions  of  that  sort.  Could  you  love  a  woman 
who  carried  mankind  in  her  heart?" 

"  People  who  are  in  love  are  naturally  aristo- 
cratic," said  the  Austrian  general,  with  a  smile. 

"  When  we  entered  the  theatre,"  continued  the 
Frenchman,  "  I  noticed  you  first  of  all,  and  I  said  to 
His  Excellency  that  if  ever  a  woman  represented  a 
country,  you  were  the  one:  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
had  before  me  the  genius  of  Italy;  but  I  regret  to  see 
that,  although  you  display  its  sublime  form,  you  have 
not  its  constitutional  spirit,"  he  added. 

"  Surely  you  must  consider  our  dancers  detestable 
and  our  singers  execrable,"  rejoined  the  duchess, 
motioning  to  him  to  look  at  the  ballet.  "  Paris  and 
London  steal  all  our  most  talented  artists:  Paris 
passes  judgment  on  them  and  London  pays  them. 
Genovese  and  La  Tinti  will  not  stay  with  us  six 
months." 

At  that  moment,  the  general  left  the  box.  Ven- 
dramin,  the  prince,  and  two  other  Italians  thereupon 
smiled  at  one  another,  glancing  significantly  at  the 
French  physician.  Strangely  enough,  considering 
that  he  was  a  Frenchman,  he  began  to  doubt  himself, 
thinking  that  he  had  said  or  done  something  incon- 
gruous; but  he  soon  obtained  the  key  to  the  enigma. 


IL   BARBIERE 


The  duchess's  box  was  on  the  ground-floor,  ^vhich 
is  called  pepiano  in  Venice ;  she  always  seated  her- 
self in  such  a  position  that  the  light  from  the  foot- 
lights fell  upon  her,  and  her  loi'ely  head  stood 
clearly  forth  in  the  soft  light  against  the  shadows 
behind  her. 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  1 53 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Emilio  to  him,  "that  we 
should  be  prudent  to  talk  openly  before  our  mas- 
ters?" 

"You  are  in  a  land  of  slaves,"  said  the  duchess, 
in  a  tone  and  with  a  movement  of  the  head  which 
instantly  imparted  anew  to  her  face  the  expression 
which  the  physician  had  a  moment  before  denied 
her. —  "Vendramin,"  she  said,  speaking  so  that 
none  but  the  stranger  could  hear  her,  "  has  begun 
to  smoke  opium,  an  infernal  inspiration  due  to  an 
Englishman  who,  for  other  reasons  than  Vendra- 
min's,  sought  a  pleasant  death;  not  the  vulgar  death 
to  which  you  have  given  the  form  of  a  skeleton,  but 
death  arrayed  in  the  rags  which  you  in  France  call 
flags — a  maiden  crowned  with  flowers  or  a  laurel 
wreath;  it  comes  in  the  midst  of  a  cloud  of  powder, 
borne  upon  the  wind  of  a  cannon-ball,  or  lying  on 
a  bed  between  two  courtesans;  sometimes  it  rises 
from  the  fumes  of  a  bowl  of  punch,  or  from  the 
capricious  vapors  of  the  diamond  not  yet  reduced  to 
the  state  of  charcoal.  When  Vendramin  wishes,  for 
three  Austrian  lire  he  transforms  himself  into  a 
Venetian  general,  he  embarks  upon  the  galleys  of 
the  Republic,  and  goes  forth  to  conquer  the  gilded 
cupolas  of  Constantinople;  there  he  lolls  on  the 
divans  of  the  seraglio,  amid  the  favorites  of  the  sul- 
tan, who  has  become  the  vassal  of  his  triumphant 
Venice.  Then  he  returns,  bringing  with  him  the 
plunder  of  the  Turkish  empire  to  restore  his  palace. 
He  passes  from  the  women  of  the  Orient  to  the 
doubly  masked  intrigues  of  his  dear  Venetians, 


154  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

dreading  the  effects  of  a  jealousy  which  no  longer 
exists.  For  three  swansiks,  he  transports  himself 
in  spirit  to  the  Council  of  Ten,  he  wields  its  terrible 
power,  devotes  his  energies  to  the  greatest  affairs  of 
State,  and  leaves  the  ducal  palace  to  lie  in  a  gondola 
beneath  two  eyes  of  flame,  or  to  scale  a  balcony  from 
which  a  white  hand  has  lowered  the  silken  ladder; 
he  loves  a  woman  to  whom  opium  imparts  a  touch 
of  poesy  which  we  women  of  flesh  and  blood  cannot 
offer  him.  Suddenly,  on  turning  his  head,  he  finds 
himself  confronted  by  the  awe-inspiring  face  of  the 
senator,  armed  with  a  dagger;  he  hears  the  dagger 
sinking  into  his  mistress's  heart,  and  she  dies,  smil- 
ing at  him,  for  she  saved  him  ! — She  is  very  fortu- 
nate," said  the  duchess,  glancing  at  the  prince. 
"  He  escapes  and  hastens  to  take  command  of  the 
Dalmatians,  to  conquer  the  Illyrian  coast  for  his 
beautiful  Venice,  where  his  renown  wins  her  for- 
giveness, where  he  tastes  the  joys  of  domestic  life: 
a  fireside,  a  winter  evening,  a  young  wife,  charming 
children,  who  pray  to  Saint  Mark  under  the  direc- 
tion of  an  elderly  nursemaid.  Yes,  for  three  lire 
worth  of  opium  he  fills  our  empty  arsenal,  he  sees 
convoys  of  merchandise  arrive  and  depart,  de- 
spatched to  or  ordered  from  the  four  quarters  of 
the  globe.  The  power  of  modern  industry  displays 
its  marvels,  not  in  London,  but  in  his  Venice,  where 
the  hanging  gardens  of  Semiramis,  the  temples  of 
Jerusalem,  the  wonderful  edifices  of  Rome,  are  re- 
produced. Lastly,  he  magnifies  the  Middle  Ages 
by  the  prodigies  of  steam,  by  new  masterpieces  to 


MASSIMILLA    DONI  155 

which  the  arts  give  birth,  patronized  as  Venice 
formerly  patronized  them.  Monuments  and  men 
jostle  one  another  in  his  narrow  brain,  where  em- 
pires, cities,  revolutions,  crumble  and  fall  in  a  few 
hours,  where  Venice  alone  increases  in  grandeur  and 
glory;  for  the  Venice  of  his  dreams  has  the  empire 
of  the  sea,  two  millions  of  people,  the  sceptre  of 
Italy,  the  sovereignty  of  the  Mediterranean  and  the 
Indies!" 

"What  an  opera  is  performed  in  a  man's  brain! 
what  a  mystery  it  is,  imperfectly  understood  even 
by  those  who  have  made  the  tour  of  it,  like  Gall!" 
cried  the  physician. 

"Dear  duchess,"  said  Vendramin,  in  a  hollow 
voice,  "  do  not  forget  the  final  service  which  my 
elixir  will  render  me.  After  hearing  enchanting 
voices,  after  absorbing  music  through  all  my  pores, 
after  experiencing  the  most  agonizing  pleasures,  and 
gratifying  the  most  intense  passions  of  Mahomet's 
paradise,  I  have  now  reached  the  stage  of  ghastly 
visions.  I  see  now  in  my  beloved  Venice  children's 
faces  distorted  like  the  faces  of  the  dying,  women 
covered  with  horrible  wounds,  bleeding  and  moan- 
ing; men  torn  asunder,  crushed  between  the  copper 
sides  of  vessels  in  collision.  I  am  beginning  to  see 
Venice  as  she  is,  covered  with  crepe,  naked,  de- 
spoiled. Pallid  phantoms  glide  through  her  streets! 
Already  the  soldiers  of  Austria  are  frowning,  already 
my  lovely  dream  life  is  yielding  to  real  life;  whereas, 
six  months  since,  real  life  was  the  disturbed  slum- 
ber, and  the  life  of  opium  was  my  life  of  love  and 


156  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

pleasure,  of  momentous  affairs  and  lofty  policies. 
Alas!  woe  is  me,  1  am  drawing  near  the  dawn  of  the 
tomb,  where  the  false  and  the  true  unite  in  doubtful 
beams  which  are  neither  light  nor  darkness,  but 
which  partake  of  the  nature  of  both." 

"You  see  there  is  too  much  patriotism  in  this 
head,"  said  the  prince,  laying  his  hand  upon  the 
masses  of  black  hair  which  towered  above  Vendra- 
min's  forehead. 

"Oh!  if  he  loves  us,  he  will  soon  give  up  his 
horrible  opium,"  said  Massimilla. 

"  I  will  cure  your  friend,"  said  the  Frenchman. 

"  Effect  that  cure  and  we  will  love  you,"  rejoined 
Massimilla;  "  and,  if  you  do  not  slander  us  on  your 
return  to  France,  we  will  love  you  still  more.  We 
poor  Italians  are  too  thoroughly  crushed  by  heavy- 
handed  dominations  to  be  fairly  judged;  we  have 
been  under  your  domination,  you  know,"  she  added, 
with  a  smile. 

"  It  was  more  generous  than  that  of  Austria," 
replied  the  physician,  earnestly. 

"Austria  squeezes  us  without  returning  anything, 
and  you  squeeze  us  in  order  to  enlarge  and  beautify 
our  cities;  you  stimulated  us  by  making  war  on  us. 
You  expected  to  retain  Italy,  and  the  others  expect 
to  lose  it,  that  is  the  whole  difference.  The  Aus- 
trians  allow  us  to  enjoy  a  sort  of  happiness  that 
is  stupefying  and  heavy  like  them,  whereas  you 
crushed  us  with  your  all-devouring  activity.  But 
death  is  death  all  the  same,  whether  caused  by 
stimulants  or  narcotics,  eh,  signor  doctor?" 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  157 

"  Poor  Italy!  to  me  she  is  like  a  lovely  woman 
whom  France  ought  to  take  for  mistress  and  de- 
fend," replied  the  physician. 

"  You  could  never  love  us  as  it  is  our  whim  to  be 
loved,"  said  the  duchess,  with  a  smile.  "We  wish 
to  be  free,  but  the  freedom  I  would  enjoy  is  not  your 
ignoble,  middle-class  liberalism,  which  would  destroy 
the  arts.  1  wish,"  she  continued  in  a  tone  that  sent 
a  thrill  through  the  whole  box,  "that  is  to  say,  I 
would  like  that  each  Italian  republic  should  be  born 
anew  with  its  nobles,  with  its  common  people,  and 
with  its  special  privileges  for  each  caste.  I  would 
like  a  return  of  the  old  aristocratic  republics,  with 
their  intestine  conflicts,  with  their  rivalries  which 
produced  the  noblest  works  of  art,  which  created  the 
science  of  politics,  and  founded  the  most  illustrious 
princely  houses.  To  extend  the  action  of  a  govern- 
ment over  a  great  stretch  of  territory  is  to  weaken 
it.  The  Italian  republics  were  the  glory  of  Europe 
in  the  Middle  Ages.  Why  did  Italy  succumb  where 
the  Swiss,  its  porters,  were  victorious?" 

"The  Swiss  republics, "said  the  physician,  "were 
excellent  housekeepers  intent  upon  their  petty  affairs, 
with  no  occasion  to  be  envious  of  one  another; 
whereas  your  republics  were  haughty  sovereigns, 
who  sold  themselves  in  order  not  to  do  homage  to 
their  neighbors;  they  have  fallen  too  low  ever  to  rise 
again.  The  Guelphs  are  triumphant!" 

"  Do  not  pity  us  too  much,"  said  the  duchess  in  a 
tone  which  made  the  hearts  of  the  two  friends  beat 
fast,  "we  tower  above  you  still!  In  the  depths 


158  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

of  her  degradation,  Italy  reigns  through  the  medium 
of  the  great  men  who  swarm  in  her  cities.  Un- 
fortunately, the  majority  of  our  geniuses  attain  a 
thorough  comprehension  of  life  so  rapidly  that  they 
bury  themselves  in  painful  enjoyment  of  its  pleas- 
ures; as  for  those  who  choose  to  play  at  the  melan- 
choly game  of  immortality,  they  are  quick  to  grasp 
your  gold  and  to  deserve  your  admiration.  Yes,  in 
this  country,  whose  deterioration  is  deplored  by  fool- 
ish travellers  and  hypocritical  poets,  whose  char- 
acter is  slandered  by  politicians;  in  this  country, 
which  seems  enervated,  powerless,  in  ruins,  pre- 
maturely aged  rather  than  old,  there  are  in  every 
walk  of  life  mighty  geniuses  who  put  forth  sturdy 
shoots,  as  an  old  vine  puts  forth  branches  which 
bear  delicious  grapes.  This  race  of  former  sover- 
eigns still  produces  kings  whose  names  are  La- 
grange,  Volta,  Rosori,  Canova,  Rossini,  Bartolini, 
Galvani,  Vigano,  Beccaria,  Cicognara,  and  Corvette. 
These  Italians  dominate  that  portion  of  the  human 
stage  upon  which  they  establish  themselves,  or  the 
art  to  which  they  devote  themselves.  To  say  noth- 
ing of  the  singers  and  instrumentalists  who  arouse 
the  admiration  of  Europe  by  the  incredible  perfection 
of  their  art,  Paganini,  Taglioni,  and  the  rest,  Italy 
still  reigns  over  the  whole  world,  which  will  come  to 
worship  at  her  feet  forever.  Go  this  evening  to  the 
Florian,  you  will  find  in  Capraja  one  of  our  great 
men,  but  a  man  enamored  of  obscurity;  no  one  save 
Duke  Cataneo,  my  lord,  understands  music  better 
than  he;  indeed,  he  is  known  here  as  //  Fanatico!" 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  159 

After  a  few  moments,  during  which  the  conversa- 
tion became  more  animated  between  the  Frenchman 
and  the  duchess,  who  showed  that  she  possessed 
much  shrewdness  and  eloquence,  the  Italians  with- 
drew, one  by  one,  to  report  in  all  the  boxes  that  La 
Cataneo,  who  was  reputed  to  be  a  donna  di  gran 
spiritu,  had  worsted  a  clever  French  physician  on 
the  subject  of  Italy.  It  was  the  sensation  of  the 
evening.  When  the  Frenchman  found  that  he  was 
alone  with  the  prince  and  the  duchess,  he  realized 
that  they  wished  to  be  left  by  themselves,  so  he 
took  his  leave.  Massimilla  returned  his  parting 
salutation  with  a  bow  which  removed  him  to  such  a 
distance  from  her,  that  she  might  thereby  have  in- 
curred the  man's  hatred,  if  he  had  been  able  to 
forget  the  charm  of  her  speech  and  her  beauty. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  opera,  therefore,  Emilio  was 
left  alone  with  Massimilla;  they  took  each  other's 
hand  and  listened  thus  to  the  duo  with  which  // 
Barbiere  comes  to  an  end. 

"Music  alone  can  express  love, "said  the  duchess, 
deeply  moved  by  that  burst  of  song  from  two  happy 
nightingales. 

Tears  stood  in  Emilio's  eyes;  Massimilla,  sublime 
with  the  beauty  typified  in  Raphael's  Saint  Cecilia, 
pressed  his  hand,  their  knees  touched;  she  had, 
as  it  were,  a  kiss  blossoming  upon  her  lips.  The 
prince  saw  upon  his  mistress's  rosy  cheeks  a  joyous 
flush  like  that  which  rises  on  a  summer's  day  above 
the  golden  fields;  his  heart  was  overburdened  by  the 
blood  rushing  thither;  he  fancied  that  he  heard  a 


160  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

concert  of  angelic  voices,  he  would  have  given  his 
life  to  feel  the  desire  which  the  abhorred  Clarina 
had  aroused  in  him  at  such  an  hour  the  preceding 
night;  but  he  was  not  conscious  even  that  he  had  a 
body.  The  unhappy  Massimilla,  in  her  innocence, 
attributed  his  tears  to  the  remark  which  Genovese's 
cavatina  had  extorted  from  her. 

"Carino,"  she  whispered  in  Emilio's  ear,  "surely 
you  are  as  much  above  protestations  of  love  as  cause 
is  superior  to  effect!" 


After  putting  the  duchess  in  her  gondola,  Emilio 
waited  for  Vendramin  to  go  with  him  to  the  Florian. 

The  Cafe  Florian  at  Venice  is  an  indescribable 
institution.  Business  men  transact  their  business 
there,  and  barristers  make  appointments  there  to 
discuss  their  most  involved  causes.  The  Florian  is 
at  one  and  the  same  time  a  merchants'  exchange,  a 
theatre  foyer,  a  bookstall,  a  club,  a  confessional,  and 
is  so  thoroughly  in  consonance  with  the  simple  habits 
of  the  country,  that  some  Venetian  women  have  ab- 
solutely no  idea  of  the  nature  of  their  husbands' 
business;  for,  when  they  have  a  letter  to  write,  they 
go  to  this  cafe  to  write  it.  Naturally,  spies  abound 
at  the  Florian;  but  their  presence  sharpens  the  Vene- 
tian wit,  which  in  that  place  has  an  opportunity  to 
display  the  prudence  once  so  famous.  Many  people 
pass  their  whole  day  at  the  Florian;  in  short,  the 
Florian  has  become  such  a  necessity  to  some  people, 
that,  during  the  entr'actes,  they  leave  their  friends' 
boxes,  and  look  in  there  to  learn  what  is  being  talked 
about. 

While  the  two  friends  were  walking  through  the 
narrow  streets  of  the  Merceria,  they  did  not  speak, 
there  were  too  many  passers;  but,  as  soon  as  they 
turned  into  the  square  Saint  Mark,  the  prince  said: 

"  Let's  not  go  to  the  cafe  yet,  let  us  walk  on.     I 
have  something  to  tell  you." 
ii  (161) 


162  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

He  described  his  adventure  with  La  Tinti  and  his 
present  plight.  Emilio's  despair  seemed  to  Vendra- 
min  so  closely  akin  to  madness,  that  he  promised  to 
cure  him  completely  if  he  would  give  him  carte  blanche 
in  his  dealings  with  Massimilla.  The  hope  thus  held 
out  came  just  in  time  to  prevent  Emilio  from  drown- 
ing himself  during  the  night;  for,  when  he  remem- 
bered the  singer,  he  was  conscious  of  a  horrible 
longing  to  return  to  her.  The  two  friends  betook 
themselves  to  the  innermost  salon  of  the  Florian, 
to  listen  to  the  typical  Venetian  conversation  which 
certain  choice  spirits  were  sure  to  be  carrying  on 
there,  talking  over  the  events  of  the  day.  The 
principal  subjects  were,  in  the  first  place,  the  per- 
sonality of  Lord  Byron,  of  whom  the  Venetians 
slyly  made  sport;  secondly,  Cataneo's  attachment 
for  La  Tinti,  which  seemed  quite  inexplicable,  after 
it  had  been  explained  in  twenty  different  ways; 
thirdly,  Genovese's  debut;  and,  lastly,  the  battle 
between  the  duchess  and  the  French  physician. 
Duke  Cataneo  appeared  in  the  salon  just  as  the 
conversation  became  intensely  musical.  He  be- 
stowed a  most  courteous  salutation  upon  Emilio, — 
so  natural  a  proceeding  that  no  one  noticed  it, — and 
the  prince  gravely  acknowledged  it.  Cataneo  looked 
about  to  see  if  any  of  his  acquaintances  were  present; 
he  saw  Vendramin  and  bowed  to  him,  then  to  his 
banker,  a  very  wealthy  patrician,  and,  lastly,  to  the 
man  who  was  talking  at  that  moment,  a  celebrated 
musical  enthusiast  and  friend  of  the  Countess  Al- 
brizzi,  whose  mode  of  life,  like  that  of  many  habitues 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  163 

of  the  Florian,  was  entirely  unknown,  so  carefully 
was  it  concealed:  nothing  was  known  of  him  except 
what  he  told  at  the  cafe. 

It  was  Capraja,  the  nobleman  whom  the  duchess 
had  mentioned  to  the  French  physician.  He  belonged 
to  that  class  of  dreamers  who  divine  everything  by 
the  power  of  their  thought.  A  designer  of  fantastic 
theories,  he  cared  as  little  for  fame  as  for  a  broken 
pipe.  His  life  was  in  harmony  with  his  opinions. 
He  appeared  under  the  procuraties  about  ten  in  the 
morning,  coming  from  nobody  knew  where;  he 
sauntered  about  Venice,  smoking  cigars.  He  was 
a  regular  attendant  at  La  Fenice,  always  sat  in  the 
pit,  and  went  between  the  acts  to  the  Florian,  where 
he  drank  three  or  four  cups  of  coffee  a  day;  he  fin- 
ished the  evening  in  the  salon,  which  he  left  about 
two  in  the  morning. 

Twelve  hundred  francs  a  year  satisfied  all  his 
needs;  he  ate  only  one  meal  each  day,  at  a  pastry- 
cook's on  the  Merceria,  where  his  dinner  was  always 
ready  at  a  certain  hour,  'on  a  small  table  in  the  back 
part  of  the  shop;  the  pastry-cook's  daughter  herself 
served  him  with  stuffed  oysters,  supplied  him  with 
cigars,  and  took  care  of  his  money.  In  accordance 
with  his  advice,  this  young  woman,  although  she 
was  exceedingly  pretty,  refused  to  listen  to  any 
lover,  led  a  virtuous  life,  and  clung  to  the  old 
Venetian  costume.  This  pure-blooded  daughter  of 
Venice  was  twelve  years  old  when  Capraja  became 
interested  in  her,  and  twenty -six  when  he  died;  she 
loved  him  dearly,  although  he  had  never  so  much  as 


164  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

kissed  her  hand  or  her  brow,  and  although  she  was 
entirely  ignorant  of  the  poor  old  nobleman's  inten- 
tions. She  had  finally  acquired  over  him  the  abso- 
lute empire  of  a  mother  over  a  child;  she  told  him 
when  it  was  time  to  change  his  linen:  the  next  day, 
Capraja  would  come  without  a  shirt,  and  she  would 
give  him  a  clean  one  which  he  would  take  away  and 
wear  the  following  day.  He  never  looked  at  a 
woman,  either  at  the  theatre  or  when  he  was  out 
walking.  Although  sprung  from  an  old  patrician 
family,  his  nobility  did  not  seem  to  him  worth  the 
expenditure  of  a  word;  after  midnight,  he  threw  off 
his  apathy,  talked  fluently,  and  showed  that  he  had 
noticed  everything,  heard  everything.  This  indolent 
Diogenes,  who  was  incapable  of  explaining  his  doc- 
trines, half-Turk,  half-Venetian,  was  short,  coarse- 
looking,  and  stout;  he  had  the  pointed  nose  of  a  doge, 
the  satirical  glance  of  an  inquisitor,  a  discreet,  albeit 
a  smiling  mouth.  At  his  death,  it  was  learned  that 
he  lived  in  a  hovel  near  San  Benedetto.  Possessed 
of  two  millions  in  the  public  funds  of  various  Euro- 
pean countries,  he  had  allowed  the  interest  to  ac- 
cumulate from  the  time  of  the  original  investment 
in  1814;  and,  as  the  funds  had  increased  largely  in 
value,  the  result  was  an  enormous  sum.  This 
whole  fortune  was  bequeathed  to  the  pastry-cook's 
daughter. 

"  Genovese,"  he  said,  "will  rise  very  high.  1 
am  not  sure  whether  he  understands  the  true  sig- 
nificance of  music,  or  acts  simply  by  instinct,  but  he 
is  the  first  singer  with  whom  I  have  ever  been  fully 


MASSIMILLA    DONI  165 

satisfied.  I  shall  not  die  without  hearing  roulades 
executed  as  I  have  often  heard  them  in  dreams, 
when,  on  waking,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  see 
the  notes  flying  through  the  air!  The  roulade  is  the 
highest  expression  of  art,  it  is  the  arabesque  which 
adorns  the  most  beautiful  room  in  the  building:  a 
little  less,  and  there  is  nothing;  a  little  more,  and  all 
is  confused.  Entrusted  with  the  mission  of  awaken- 
ing in  your  soul  a  thousand  sleeping  ideas,  it  rushes 
through  space,  sowing  in  the  air  seeds  which,  being 
gathered  up  by  the  ears,  germinate  in  the  heart. 
Believe  me,  Raphael,  when  painting  his  Saint  Cecilia, 
gave  music  precedence  over  poetry.  He  was  right; 
music  appeals  to  the  heart,  while  written  words 
appeal  only  to  the  intelligence;  music  communicates 
its  ideas  instantly,  after  the  manner  of  perfumes. 
The  singer's  voice  strikes  not  the  thought,  not  the 
memories  of  our  felicities,  but  the  elements  of 
thought,  and  sets  in  motion  the  very  essence  of  our 
sensations.  It  is  a  deplorable  fact  that  the  common 
herd  has  compelled  musicians  to  adapt  their  meas- 
ures to  words,  to  artificial  interests;  but  it  is  true 
that  otherwise  they  would  not  be  understood  by  the 
multitude.  The  roulade,  therefore,  is  the  only  point 
left  for  the  friends  of  pure  music,  the  lovers  of  art  in 
its  nakedness,  to  cling  to.  To-night,  as  I  listened  to 
that  last  cavatina,  I  imagined  that  I  had  received  an 
invitation  from  a  lovely  girl  who,  by  a  single  glance, 
restored  my  youth!  the  enchantress  placed  a  crown 
on  my  head  and  led  me  to  the  ivory  gate  through 
which  we  enter  the  mysterious  land  of  Reverie.  I 


166  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

owe  it  to  Genovese  that  I  was  able  to  lay  aside  my 
old  envelope  for  a  few  moments,  brief  as  measured 
by  watches,  but  very  long  as  measured  by  sensa- 
tions. During  a  springtime,  balmy  with  the  breath 
of  roses,  I  was  young  and  beloved !" 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Caro  Capraja,"  said  the 
duke.  "  There  is  a  power  in  music  more  magical 
in  its  effects  than  that  of  the  roulade." 

"What  is  it?"  queried  Capraja. 

"  The  perfect  accord  of  two  voices,  or  of  one 
voice  and  a  violin,  which  is  the  instrument  whose 
tone  approaches  the  human  voice  most  nearly,"  re- 
plied the  duke.  "This  perfect  accord  carries  us 
further  into  the  centre  of  life,  upon  the  stream  of 
elemental  principles  which  vivifies  the  senses,  and 
bears  man  into  the  midst  of  the  luminous  sphere 
whither  his  mind  can  convoke  the  whole  world. 
You  must  have  a  theme,  Capraja,  but  for  me  the 
pure  essence  is  sufficient;  you  desire  the  water  to 
pass  through  the  millwright's  innumerable  canals, 
to  fall  in  dazzling  cascades;  while  I  am  content  with 
a  calm,  pure  sheet  of  water,  my  eye  scans  an  un- 
ruffled sea,  I  can  embrace  infinity!" 

"  Hush,  Cataneo,"  remarked  Capraja,  haughtily. 
""How  now!  do  you  not  see  the  fairy  who,  in  her 
swift  course  through  a  luminous  atmosphere,  assem- 
bles there,  with  the  golden  thread  of  harmony,  the 
melodious  treasures  which  she  smilingly  tosses  down 
to  us?  Have  you  never  felt  the  touch  of  the  magic 
wand  with  which  she  says  to  Curiosity:  '  Rise!' 
The  goddess  rises  radiant  from  the  depths  of  the 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  167 

abysses  of  the  brain,  she  runs  to  her  marvellous 
treasure-chests,  and  breathes  upon  them  as  the 
organist  touches  his  keys.  Suddenly,  memories 
spring  forth,  bringing  the  roses  of  the  past,  pre- 
served by  divine  power  and  always  fresh.  Our 
young  mistress  returns  and  caresses  with  her  white 
hands  a  young  man's  locks;  the  too-full  heart  over- 
flows, we  see  the  flower-strewn  banks  of  the  tor- 
rents of  love.  All  the  ardent  vegetation  of  youth 
blazes  brightly  and  repeats  the  divine  words  once 
heard  and  understood!  And  the  voice  rolls  on,  it 
embraces  in  its  swift  revolutions  the  fleeing  horizons 
and  contracts  them ;  they  disappear,  eclipsed  by 
new,  more  intense  joys,  the  joys  of  an  unknown 
future  to  which  the  fairy  points  as  she  takes  flight 
into  her  blue  heavens." 

"  And  have  you,"  retorted  Cataneo,  "  never 
known  the  direct  gleam  of  a  star  to  lay  open  to 
your  gaze  the  abysses  of  the  upper  world,  and  have 
you  never  ascended  on  that  ray  of  light  into  the 
sky,  amid  the  elements  which  keep  the  worlds  in 
motion?" 

The  duke  and  Capraja  were  playing  a  game  of 
which  the  rules  were  unknown  to  all  their  auditors. 

"  Genovese's  voice  seizes  the  very  fibres,"  said 
Capraja. 

"And  La  Tinti's  attacks  the  blood,"  rejoined  the 
duke. 

"  What  a  paraphrase  of  happy  love  that  cavatina 
contains!"  said  Capraja.  "Ah!  Rossini  was  young 
when  he  wrote  that  theme  for  the  behoof  of  the 


1 68  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

pleasure  that  effervesces!  My  heart  was  filled  with 
fresh  blood,  a  thousand  desires  struck  fire  in  my 
veins.  Never  did  more  angelic  sounds  more  com- 
pletely relax  my  corporeal  bonds!  never  did  the  fairy- 
display  more  beautifully  moulded  arms,  nor  smile 
more  amorously,  nor  raise  her  tunic  more  bewitch- 
ingly  above  her  knee,  raising  thus  the  curtain  be- 
hind which  my  other  life  lies  hidden!" 

"  To-morrow  night,  my  old  friend,"  replied  the 
duke,  "  you  will  sit  upon  the  back  of  a  dazzling 
white  swan,  who  will  show  you  the  most  fertile  of 
all  countries;  you  will  see  the  spring  as  children  see 
it.  Your  heart  will  glow  in  the  light  of  a  new  sun; 
you  will  lie  upon  red  silk,  beneath  the  eyes  of  a  Ma- 
donna; you  will  be  like  a  happy  lover  voluptuously 
caressed  by  a  Joy,  whose  bare  feet  can  still  be  seen, 
but  who  will  soon  disappear.  The  swan  will  be 
Genovese's  voice,  if  it  can  achieve  perfect  unison 
with  its  Leda,  the  voice  of  La  Tinti.  To-morrow 
we  are  to  have  Moses,  the  most  glorious  opera  that 
the  noblest  genius  of  Italy  has  ever  produced." 

The  others  allowed  the  duke  and  Capraja  to  talk 
on,  not  choosing  to  be  the  dupes  of  a  mystification; 
Vendramin  and  the  French  physician  alone  listened 
to  them  for  a  few  moments.  The  opium  smoker 
understood  this  poetic  language,  he  had  the  key  to 
the  palace  through  which  those  two  voluptuous  im- 
aginations were  straying.  The  physician  tried  to 
understand,  and  succeeded ;  for  he  belonged  to  that 
constellation  of  great  geniuses  of  the  Paris  school 
from  which  the  true  physician  comes  forth  a  no 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  169 

less  profound  metaphysician  than  an  accomplished 
analyst. 

"Did  you  hear  them?"  Emilio  asked  Vendramin, 
as  they  left  the  cafe  about  two  in  the  morning. 

"  Yes,  dear  Emilio,"  Vendramin  replied,  leading 
the  way  to  his  own  house.  "  Those  two  men  belong 
to  the  legion  of  pure  intellects  who  are  able  to  divest 
themselves  of  the  larvae  of  the  flesh,  and  to  fly, 
astride  the  body  of  the  queen  of  witches,  through 
the  azure  heavens  where  the  sublime  wonders  of  the 
moral  life  are  displayed;  they  attain  through  art 
the  point  to  which  your  excessive  love  guides  you, 
and  to  which  opium  transports  me.  They  can  be 
understood  only  by  their  peers.  I,  whose  faculties 
are  exalted  by  a  deplorable  means;  I,  who  crowd  a 
hundred  years  of  existence  into  a  single  night, — I 
can  understand  those  great  minds  when  they  talk 
of  the  magnificent  country  called  the  country  of 
chimeras  by  those  who  deem  themselves  wise, 
called  the  country  of  realities  by  us  whom  men  call 
mad.  The  duke  and  Capraja,  who  formerly  knew 
each  other  at  Naples,  where  Cataneo  was  born,  are 
music-mad." 

"  But  what  is  the  extraordinary  theory  that  Ca- 
praja attempted  to  explain  to  Cataneo?"  inquired 
the  prince.  "  Did  you,  who  understand  everything, 
understand  that?" 

"  Yes,"  Vendramin  replied.  "  Capraja  is  intimate 
with  a  musician  from  Cremona  who  lives  in  the  Ca- 
pello  palace;  this  musician  believes  that  sound  en- 
counters within  us  a  substance  analogous  to  that 


I/O  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

which  is  engendered  by  the  phenomena  of  light, 
and  which  produces  ideas  in  us.  According  to  him, 
man  has  keys  within,  which  sounds  affect,  and 
which  correspond  to  our  nerve-centres  from  which 
our  sensations  and  ideas  spring!  Capraja,  who  looks 
upon  the  arts  as  a  collection  of  the  means  whereby 
man  can  bring  external  nature  into  harmony  with  a 
mysterious  internal  nature,  which  he  calls  an  inward 
life,  has  adopted  the  ideas  of  this  instrument-maker, 
who  is  at  this  moment  composing  an  opera.  Imagine 
a  sublime  creation  in  which  the  marvels  of  visible 
creation  are  reproduced  with  immeasurable  grandeur, 
lightness,  rapidity,  and  breadth,  in  which  the  sensa- 
tions are  infinite,  and  to  which  certain  privileged 
natures  endowed  with  a  divine  power  can  pene- 
trate— then  you  will  have  an  idea  of  the  ecstatic 
delights  of  which  Cataneo  and  Capraja,  poets  in 
their  own  eyes  only,  discoursed  so  earnestly.  But 
it  is  true,  also,  that,  as  soon  as  a  man,  in  the  sphere 
of  moral  nature,  oversteps  the  limits  within  which 
plastic  works  are  produced  by  the  process  of  imita- 
tion, to  enter  into  the  kingdom,  wholly  spiritual,  of 
abstractions,  where  everything  is  viewed  in  its  es- 
sence and  in  the  omnipotence  of  results,  that  man  is 
no  longer  understood  by  ordinary  intellects." 

"You  have  explained  my  love  for  Massimilla," 
said  Emilio.  "My  dear  fellow,  there  is  a  power 
within  me  which  wakes  under  the  flame  of  her 
glance,  at  her  lightest  touch,  and  casts  me  into  a 
world  of  light  where  effects  are  produced  of  which 
1  have  never  dared  to  speak  to  you.  It  has  often 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  171 

seemed  to  me  that  the  delicate  tissue  of  her  skin 
leaves  the  imprint  of  flowers  upon  mine,  when  her 
hand  rests  upon  my  hand.  Her  words  correspond  to 
the  interior  keys  of  which  you  speak.  Desire  excites 
my  brain  and  stirs  this  invisible  world  to  activity, 
instead  of  exciting  my  inert  body;  and  the  air  be- 
comes red  and  sparkles,  unfamiliar  perfumes  of  in- 
describable pungency  relax  my  nerves,  the  walls  of 
my  brain  are  lined  with  roses,  and  it  seems  to  me 
that  my  blood  is  ebbing  away  through  all  my  open 
arteries,  my  languor  is  so  intense." 

"  That  is  the  effect  opium  has  upon  me,"  said 
Vendramin. 

"  Would  you  then,  die?"  said  Emilio  in  horror. 

"With  Venice,"  exclaimed  Vendramin,  stretching 
out  his  hand  toward  Saint  Mark's.  "  Can  you  see 
a  single  one  among  those  turrets  and  spires  which  is 
straight?  Do  you  not  understand  that  the  sea  will 
soon  claim  its  prey?" 

The  prince  hung  his  head,  and  dared  not  speak  of 
love  to  his  friend.  One  must  travel  among  conquered 
nations  to  learn  what  a  free  country  is.  When  they 
reached  the  Vendramini  palace,  they  saw  a  gondola 
at  the  water  door.  Thereupon  the  prince  put  his 
arm  about  Vendramin's  waist  and  embraced  him 
affectionately,  saying: 

"  Good-night,  dear  fellow!" 

"A  woman  for  me,  when  I  lie  with  Venice!"  cried 
Vendramin. 

At  that  moment,  the  gondolier,  who  was  leaning 
against  a  pillar,  spied  the  two  friends,  recognized  the 


172  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

man  who  had  been  described  to  him,  and  said  in  the 
prince's  ear: 

"  The  duchess,  monseigneur." 

Emilio  leaped  into  the  gondola,  where  he  was  en- 
twined by  arms  of  iron,  but  supple  in  their  strength, 
and  drawn  down  upon  cushions  where  he  felt  the 
heaving  breast  of  an  amorous  woman.  Instantly 
the  prince  ceased  to  be  Emilio,  and  became  La 
Tinti's  lover,  for  his  sensations  were  so  bewildering 
that  he  fell,  as  if  stupefied  by  the  first  kiss. 

"Forgive  me  for  this  trick,  my  love,"  said  the 
Sicilian.  "I  shall  die  if  I  do  not  take  you  with 
me!" 

And  the  gondola  flew  over  the  silent  waves. 


The  next  evening,  at  half-past  seven,  the  spec- 
tators were  in  the  same  seats  at  the  theatre,  ex- 
cept the  habitues  of  the  pit,  who  always  take  their 
seats  at  random.  Old  Capraja  was  in  Cataneo's 
box.  Before  the  overture,  the  duke  came  to  pay 
the  duchess  a  visit;  he  ostentatiously  stood  behind 
Massimilla  and  allowed  Emilio  to  remain  beside  her, 
at  the  front  of  the  box.  He  made  a  few  unmeaning 
remarks,  free  from  irony  or  bitterness,  and  with  as 
courteous  a  manner  as  if  he  were  visiting  a  stranger. 
Despite  his  efforts  to  appear  affable  and  natural,  the 
prince  could  not  change  his  expression,  which  was 
wofully  thoughtful  and  anxious.  The  indifferent 
would  probably  attribute  to  jealousy  so  marked  a 
change  in  his  usually  calm  features.  Doubtless  the 
duchess  shared  Emilio's  emotions,  for  her  brow  was 
clouded  and  she  was  visibly  depressed.  The  duke, 
who  was  sadly  embarrassed  between  those  two  un- 
gracious expressions,  took  advantage  of  the  French- 
man's entrance  to  leave  the  box. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Cataneo  to  his  physician  before 
letting  fall  the  portiere  of  the  box,  "  you  are  about 
to  hear  an  immense  musical  drama,  by  no  means 
easy  to  understand  on  the  first  hearing;  but  I  leave 
you  with  the  duchess,  who  can  understand  it  better 
than  anyone  else,  for  she  is  my  pupil." 

The  physician  was  impressed,  as  the  duke  had 
(173) 


174  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

been,  by  the  expression  on  the  faces  of  the  two 
lovers,  which  denoted  a  morbid  despair. 

"  So  an  Italian  ope,ra  requires  an  interpreter?"  he 
smilingly  inquired  of  the  duchess. 

Recalled  by  this  question  to  her  duties  as  mistress 
of  the  box,  the  duchess  tried  to  drive  away  the 
clouds  that  lay  heavy  on  her  brow,  and,  in  reply, 
grasped  eagerly  at  a  subject  of  conversation  upon 
which  she  could  pour  out  her  inward  irritation. 

"It  is  not  an  opera,  monsieur,"  she  said,  "but 
an  oratorio,  a  work  which  bears  much  resemblance 
to  one  of  our  most  magnificent  buildings,  and  I  will 
gladly  guide  you  through  it.  I  assure  you  that  you 
will  do  well  to  give  your  whole  mind  to  our  great 
Rossini,  for  one  must  be  poet  and  musician  at  once 
to  comprehend  the  full  scope  of  such  music.  You 
belong  to  a  nation  whose  language  and  genius  are 
too  positive  to  allow  it  to  enter  readily  into  the  en- 
joyment of  music;  but  France  is  likewise  too  com- 
prehensive in  her  tastes  not  to  end  by  loving  it  and 
cultivating  it,  and  you  Frenchmen  will  succeed  in 
that  as  in  everything  else.  Moreover,  we  must  real- 
ize the  fact  that  music,  as  Lulli,  Rameau,  Haydn, 
Mozart,  Beethoven,  Cimarosa,  Paisiello,  and  Rossini 
have  developed  it,  and  as  the  noble  geniuses  of  the 
future  will  perpetuate  it,  is  a  new  art,  unknown  to 
past  generations,  who  had  not  so  many  instruments 
as  we  have  now,  and  who  knew  nothing  of  har- 
mony, upon  which  the  beauties  of  music  rest  to-day, 
as  upon  a  fertile  soil.  An  art  so  novel  requires 
study  among  the  masses,  study  which  will  develop 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  175 

the  sentiment  to  which  music  appeals.  This  senti- 
ment hardly  exists  among  you,  a  nation  engrossed 
by  philosophical  theories,  by  analysis  and  discus- 
sions, and  always  disturbed  by  civil  dissensions. 
Modern  music,  which  demands  perfect  peace,  is  the 
language  of  affectionate,  loving  hearts,  inclined  to  a 
noble  interior  exaltation.  This  language,  a  thousand 
times  richer  than  the  language  of  words,  is  to  the 
latter  what  thought  is  to  speech;  it  awakes  sensa- 
tions and  ideas  in  the  same  form  in  which  sensations 
and  ideas  are  born  in  us,  but  leaves  them  as  they 
are  in  each  one.  This  power  over  our  inward  life 
is  one  of  the  grandest  features  of  music.  The  other 
arts  impress  definite  creations  on  the  mind,  music  is 
infinite  in  its  creations.  We  are  obliged  to  accept 
the  poet's  ideas,  the  painter's  picture,  the  sculptor's 
statue;  but  each  one  of  us  interprets  music  accord- 
ing to  the  dictates  of  his  sorrow  or  his  joy,  his  hopes 
or  his  despair.  Where  other  arts  circumscribe  our 
thoughts,  and  direct  them  upon  one  definite  object, 
music  sets  them  loose  upon  all  nature  which  it  has 
the  power  to  interpret  to  us.  You  shall  see  how  I 
understand  Rossini's  Moses!" 

She  leaned  toward  the  physician  in  order  to  speak 
so  that  no  one  else  could  hear. 

"Moses  is  the  liberator  of  an  enslaved  people!" 
she  said;  "  remember  that  thought,  and  you  will  see 
with  what  religious  hope  La  Fenice  from  pit  to  gal- 
lery will  listen  to  the  prayer  of  the  Hebrews  deliv- 
ered from  bondage,  and  with  what  thunders  of 
applause  it  will  respond !" 


176  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

Emilio  withdrew  to  the  back  of  the  box  as  the 
leader  of  the  orchestra  raised  his  bow.  The  duchess 
motioned  to  the  physician  to  take  the  place  vacated 
by  the  prince.  But  the  Frenchman  was  more  curi- 
ous to  know  what  had  taken  place  between  the 
lovers,  than  desirous  to  enter  the  musical  palace 
built  by  the  man  whom  all  Italy  was  then  applaud- 
ing, for  Rossini  was  at  that  time  enjoying  a  tri- 
umph in  his  native  land.  The  Frenchman  narrowly 
watched  the  duchess,  who  spoke  under  great  nervous 
excitement,  and  reminded  him  of  the  Niobe  he  had 
lately  admired  at  Florence:  the  same  noble  dignity  in 
sorrow,  the  same  physical  impassiveness;  the  soul, 
however,  cast  a  reflection  upon  the  warm  coloring 
of  her  flesh,  and  her  eyes,  in  which  languor  slowly 
gave  way  to  a  haughty  expression,  dried  their  tears 
with  a  fierce  flame.  Her  restrained  grief  grew  less 
poignant  when  she  looked  at  Emilio,  who  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  her  face.  It  was  easy  to  see  that 
she  longed  to  soothe  a  violent  despair.  The  plight  of 
her  heart  imparted  an  indefinable  touch  of  grandeur 
to  her  mind.  Like  most  women  when  they  are 
spurred  on  by  intense  emotion,  she  went  beyond 
her  usual  limits,  and  displayed  something  of  the 
pythoness,  albeit  not  ceasing  to  be  noble  and  great, 
for  it  was  the  form  of  her  ideas,  and  not  her  face, 
which  was  writhing  in  desperation.  Perhaps  she 
chose  to  put  forth  all  her  intellect  in  order  to  make 
life  more  attractive,  and  to  retain  her  hold  upon  her 
lover. 

When  the  orchestra  had  played  the  three  chords 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  177 

in  C  major,  which  the  master  has  placed  at  the  be- 
ginning of  his  work  to  explain  that  his  overture  will 
be  sung,  for  the  real  overture  is  the  vast  theme  ex- 
tending from  that  abrupt  beginning  to  the  moment 
when  the  light  appears  at  the  bidding  of  Moses,  the 
duchess  could  not  restrain  a  convulsive  movement 
which  proved  how  thoroughly  the  music  harmonized 
with  her  concealed  suffering. 

"  How  those  three  chords  freeze  your  blood  !"  she 
said.  "  They  prepare  one  for  sorrow.  Listen  closely 
to  this  introduction,  the  subject  of  which  is  the  heart- 
rending lament  of  a  people  stricken  by  the  hand  of 
God.  What  a  moaning!  The  king,  the  queen,  their 
oldest  son,  the  great  men,  the  whole  people  are  be- 
wailing their  fate;  they  are  struck  down  in  their 
pride,  in  their  conquests,  checked  in  their  avidity. 
Dear  Rossini,  you  did  well  to  toss  that  bone  to  the 
Tedeschi  to  gnaw,  for  they  denied  us  the  gift  of  har- 
mony and  learning!  Now  you  will  hear  the  ominous 
melody  which  the  master  has  introduced  into  this 
profound  harmonic  composition,  comparable  to  the 
most  involved  works  the  Germans  have  produced, 
but  free  from  all  fatiguing  or  tiresome  effects  upon 
our  minds.  You  Frenchmen,  who  have  recently 
achieved  the  most  sanguinary  of  revolutions,  among 
whom  aristocracy  was  crushed  beneath  the  paws  of 
the  popular  lion,  will  understand,  when  this  oratorio 
is  performed  in  France,  this  magnificent  lament  of 
the  victims  of  a  God  who  avenges  His  people.  Only 
an  Italian  could  compose  this  fruitful,  inexhaustible, 
and  wholly  Dantesque  theme.  Do  you  deem  it  a 

12 


178  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

trifle  to  dream  of  vengeance  for  a  single  moment? 
Ye  old  German  masters,  Handel,  Sebastian  Bach, 
and  thou,  Beethoven,  to  your  knees,  behold  the 
queen  of  the  arts,  behold  triumphant  Italy!" 

The  duchess  was  able  to  say  thus  much  while  the 
curtain  was  rising.  Then  the  physician  listened  to 
the  sublime  symphony  with  which  the  composer 
opens  that  vast  Biblical  scene.  The  subject  is  the 
grief  of  a  whole  people.  Grief  is  always  the  same 
in  its  expression,  especially  when  caused  by  physical 
suffering.  And  so,  after  he  has  instinctively  divined, 
like  all  men  of  genius,  that  there  can  be  no  variety 
in  the  ideas  associated  with  grief,  the  musician, 
when  his  leading  motive  is  once  determined  upon, 
proceeds  to  develop  it  from  tonality  to  tonality, 
grouping  his  characters  and  his  choruses  around  that 
motive  by  modulations  and  cadenzas  of  marvellous 
flexibility.  Power  is  revealed  in  this  very  simplicity. 
The  effect  of  this  opening  phrase,  which  depicts 
the  sensations  produced  by  cold  and  darkness  in 
a  people  hitherto  always  bathed  by  the  luminous 
waves  of  the  sun,  and  which  the  people  and  their 
rulers  take  up  and  repeat,  is  most  impressive.  There 
is  a  something  indefinably  pitiless  in  the  slow  move- 
ment. The  unusual,  sorrowful  phrase  is  like  an  iron 
bar  held  by  some  celestial  executioner,  who  lets  it 
fall  upon  the  limbs  of  all  these  victims  in  perfect 
rhythm.  By  dint  of  listening  to  the  transition  from 
C  minor  to  G  minor,  thence  to  C  once  more,  and  so 
back  to  the  key-note  G,  to  begin  anew  fortissimo 
upon  the  tonic  E  flat,  passing  thence  to  F  major  and 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  179 

returning  to  C  minor,  more  and  more  laden  with 
terror,  cold,  and  darkness,  the  spectator's  mind  as- 
sociates itself  at  last  with  the  impressions  described 
by  the  musician.  So  that  the  Frenchman  experi- 
enced the  keenest  emotion  when  there  came  the  ex- 
plosion of  all  these  united  griefs,  crying: 

"O  Nume  d'Israel, 
Se  brami  in  liberta 
II  popol  tuo  fedel, 
Di  lui,  di  noi  pieta !" 

— O  God  of  Israel,  if  it  be  Thy  will  that  Thy 
faithful  people  be  freed  from  their  bondage,  deign  to 
have  pity  upon  them  and  upon  us! — 

"  Never  was  there  so  wonderful  a  combination  of 
natural  effects,  so  complete  an  idealization  of  nature. 
In  great  national  disasters,  each  individual  bewails 
his  fate  at  great  length  and  separately;  then  cries 
of  grief,  more  or  less  violent,  arise  here  and  there 
from  the  multitude;  finally,  when  misery  has  come 
home  to  all,  it  bursts  forth  like  a  tempest.  When  they 
have  once  reached  an  understanding  concerning  the 
wound  that  is  common  to  them  all,  then  the  people 
change  their  dull  moaning  to  impatient  outcries. 
That  is  the  course  Rossini  has  followed.  After  the 
explosion  in  C  major,  Pharaoh  sings  his  sublime 
recitative  Mano  ultrice  di  un  Dio! — Avenging  God, 
too  late  I  recognize  Thy  hand !  —  Thereupon  the 
original  motive  assumes  a  livelier  tone:  all  Egypt 
summons  Moses  to  its  assistance." 

The  duchess  had  availed  herself  of  the  interlude 


180  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

necessitated  by  the  arrival  of  Moses  a.nd  Aaron,  to 
explain  the  beautiful  passage. 

"Let  them  weep!"  she  added,  passionately, 
"they  have  done  much  harm.  Expiate,  Egyptians, 
the  sins  of  your  insensate  court!  With  what  art 
the  great  painter  has  employed  all  the  dark  colors  of 
music,  and  all  the  melancholy  tints  to  be  found  upon 
the  musical  palette!  What  frigid  darkness!  what 
mists!  Is  not  your  heart  in  mourning?  are  not  you 
convinced  of  the  reality  of  the  black  clouds  in  which 
the  stage  is  shrouded?  In  your  eyes  is  not  nature 
enveloped  by  the  densest  shadows?  There  are 
neither  Egyptian  palaces  nor  palm-trees  nor  land- 
scapes. Think,  then,  what  untold  comfort  the  pro- 
foundly religious  notes  of  the  divine  physician  who 
is  about  to  cure  this  painful  wound  will  bring  to  your 
soul !  How  naturally  everything  leads  up  to  Moses's 
magnificent  invocation  to  God !  As  the  result  of 
careful  reasoning  by  analogy,  which  Capraja  will 
explain  to  you,  this  invocation  is  accompanied  by 
the  brasses  alone.  These  instruments  give  to  the 
passage  its  noble  religious  coloring.  Not  only  is 
the  artifice  admirable  in  this  spot,  but  see  how 
fertile  genius  is  in  resources:  Rossini  has  extracted 
new  beauties  from  the  obstacle  he  placed  in  his 
own  path.  He  reserves  the  stringed  instruments  to 
represent  the  light  when  it  succeeds  the  darkness, 
and  by  this  means  to  achieve  one  of  the  most  power- 
ful effects  ever  known  in  music.  Until  this  inimita- 
ble genius  appeared,  had  so  much  ever  been  made 
out  of  the  recitative?  As  yet,  there  has  been  no  air, 


MASSIMILLA    DONI  l8l 

no  duet.  The  poet  has  sustained  himself  by  the 
force  of  his  thought,  by  the  vigor  of  his  images,  by 
the  truth  of  his  declamation.  This  scene  of  sorrow, 
this  profound  darkness,  these  cries  of  despair,  this 
musical  tableau,  are  as  fine  as  your  great  Poussin's 
Deluge." 

Moses  waved  his  staff  and  the  day  appeared. 

"See,  monsieur,  how  the  music  struggles  with 
the  sun,  whose  brilliancy  it  has  borrowed,  with  all 
nature,  whose  phenomena  it  reproduces  to  the  most 
trifling  details,"  continued  the  duchess  in  an  under- 
tone. "  At  this  point,  art  reaches  its  apogee,  no 
musician  will  ever  go  further.  Do  you  hear  Egypt 
waking  after  this  long  lethargy?  Happiness  perme- 
ates everywhere  with  the  light.  In  what  ancient  or 
modern  work  will  you  find  such  a  beautiful  page? 
the  most  exuberant  joy  contrasted  with  the  most 
profound  melancholy?  What  shrieks!  what  joyously 
tripping  notes!  how  the  oppressed  heartthrobs!  what 
a  delirium  of  joy!  mark  the  tremolo  in  the  orchestra! 
What  a  noble  ensemble !  It  is  the  joy  of  a  rescued 
people!  Do  you  not  feel  a  thrill  of  pleasure?" 

The  physician,  surprised  by  the  contrast,  one  of 
the  most  magnificent  in  modern  music,  clapped  his 
hands  in  enthusiastic  admiration. 

"Brava  La  Doni!"  said  Vendramin,  who  had  been 
listening. 

"  The  introduction  is  finished,"  resumed  the  duch- 
ess. "  You  have  experienced  a  violent  emotion,"  she 
said  to  the  physician;  "  your  heart  is  beating  fast, 
you  have  seen  in  the  depths  of  your  imagination 


1 82  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

the  most  resplendent  of  suns  inundating  with  its 
torrents  of  light  a  whole  country,  but  now  cold  and 
dismal.  Understand  now  how  the  musician  has  done 
his  work,  in  order  that  you  may  be  able  to  admire 
him  to-morrow  in  the  secrets  of  his  genius,  after  un- 
dergoing his  influence  to-day.  What  think  you  this 
passage  of  the  sunrise  is,  so  varied,  so  brilliant,  so  per- 
fect? It  consists  of  a  simple  chord  in  the  key  of  C, 
repeated  again  and  again,  blended  only  with  a  chord 
of  quart  de  sixte.  Herein  the  magic  of  his  process 
is  revealed.  He  has  adopted  the  same  method  to 
represent  the  coming  of  the  light  that  he  employed 
to  represent  darkness  and  sorrow.  This  dawn  de- 
picted in  images  is  exactly  like  a  natural  dawn. 
Light  is  an  unchangeable  substance,  always  the 
same,  its  effects  varied  only  by  the  objects  it  meets; 
is  it  not  so?  Now,  the  musician  has  chosen  for  the 
basis  of  his  work  a  single  motive,  a  simple  chord  in 
C.  The  sun  appears  and  sheds  its  rays  upon  the 
hill-tops  and  thence  into  the  valleys.  So  the  strain 
begins  upon  the  first  string  of  the  first  violins,  softly 
as  the  north  wind,  then  extends  through  the  orches- 
tra, vivifies  all  the  instruments  one  by  one,  gradually 
unfolds  itself.  As  the  light  steals  onward,  shining 
upon  one  object  after  another,  so  the  music  proceeds, 
awakening  each  source  of  harmony  until  all  flow  on 
together  in  the  ensemble.  The  violins,  which  you 
have  not  heard  before,  give  the  signal  with  their 
soft  tremolo,  quivering  vaguely  like  the  first  waves 
of  light.  This  charming,  joyous  movement,  which 
caresses  your  very  soul,  the  skilful  musician  has 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  183 

interspersed  with  bass  chords,  by  a  wavering  blast 
upon  the  horns,  restricted  to  their  lowest  notes,  in 
order  to  bring  before  your  eyes  the  last  cool  shadows 
which  linger  in  the  valleys  while  the  first  flames  are 
playing  about  the  hill-tops.  Then  the  wind-instru- 
ments softly  swell  the  volume  of  sound,  strengthen- 
ing the  general  harmony.  The  voices  join,  with 
sighs  of  gladness  and  wonder.  Lastly,  the  brasses 
ring  out  exultantly,  the  trumpets  burst  forth!  Light, 
the  source  of  harmony,  inundates  nature,  whereupon 
all  the  treasures  of  music  are  revealed  with  a  force 
and  brilliancy  equal  to  those  of  the  beams  of  the 
Eastern  sun.  Even  the  triangle,  with  its  C  repeated 
again  and  again,  reminds  you  of  the  song  of  the 
birds  in  the  morning,  by  its  shrill  notes  and  its  mis- 
chievous play.  The  same  tonality,  repeated  by  that 
master  hand,  expresses  the  joy  of  all  nature,  sooth- 
ing the  pain  that  rent  your  heart  a  moment  since. 
There  is  the  stamp  of  the  master:  unity!  It  is  one, 
yet  varied.  A  single  phrase  and  a  thousand  sorrow- 
ful emotions,  the  miseries  of  a  nation;  a  single  chord, 
and  all  the  incidents  of  the  awakening  of  nature,  all 
the  different  expressions  of  a  nation's  joy.  These 
two  grand  pages  are  welded  together  by  an  appeal 
to  the  ever-living  God,  the  author  of  all  things,  of 
this  sorrow  and  of  this  joy  as  well.  Is  not  this 
introduction,  taken  by  itself,  a  grand  poem?" 

"It  is,  indeed,"  said  the  Frenchman. 

"  Now  comes  a  quintet,  such  as  Rossini  alone 
can  write;  if  he  has  ever  been  guilty  of  the  sen- 
suous, yielding  wantonness  for  which  our  music  is 


184  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

reprobated,  it  surely  is  in  this  beautiful  passage,  in 
which  everyone  gives  voice  to  his  gladness,  in  which 
the  nation  is  delivered  from  bondage,  but  in  which  the 
sighing  of  an  imperilled  love  is  soon  to  be  heard. 
Pharaoh's  son  loves  a  Jewess,  and  the  Jewess  leaves 
him.  The  thing  that  makes  this  quintet  delightful 
and  enchanting  is  the  return  to  the  ordinary  emo- 
tions of  life  after  the  grandiose  description  of  the 
two  most  immense  scenes  in  the  life  of  a  nation 
and  in  nature,  misery,  and  happiness,  surrounded 
by  the  magic  charm  which  they  owe  to  the  divine 
vengeance  and  to  the  marvellous  Bible  narrative. — 
Was  I  not  right?"  she  asked  the  Frenchman,  at  the 
close  of  the  magnificent  stretto: 

"  Voci  di  giubilo 
D'in'orno  echeggino, 
Di  pace  1'Iride 
Per  noi  spunto." 

— What  shouts  of  joy  arise  about  us,  the  star  of 
peace  sheds  its  light  for  us. — 

"  With  what  art  the  composer  has  constructed 
this  passage!"  she  continued,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  she  awaited  a  reply;  "  he  begins  it  with  a 
horn  solo  of  divine  sweetness,  supported  by  arpeg- 
gios on  the  harps,  for  the  first  voices  to  be  heard  in 
this  grand  concert  are  those  of  Moses  and  Aaron, 
when  they  offer  thanks  to  the  true  God;  their  duo, 
melodious  and  solemn,  recalls  the  sublime  ideas  of 
the  invocation,  and  accords  none  the  less  with  the  joy 
of  the  profane  people.  There  is  in  this  transition 


MASS1MILLA   DONI  185 

something  at  once  celestial  and  terrestrial,  which 
genius  alone  can  detect,  and  which  gives  to  the  an- 
dante of  the  quintet  a  coloring  which  I  can  compare 
only  to  that  with  which  Titian  surrounds  the  heads 
of  his  divine  characters.  Do  you  notice  how  beauti- 
fully the  voices  blend?  How  deftly  the  composer 
has  arranged  the  vocal  passages  to  correspond  with 
the  charming  strains  played  by  the  orchestra!  With 
what  skill  he  paves  the  way  for  the  jubilation  of  his 
allegro!  Can  you  not  see  in  your  mind's  eye  the 
dancing  multitudes,  the  wild  gambols  of  a  people 
delivered  from  their  peril?  And  when  the  clarinet 
gave  the  signal  for  the  stretto,  Voci  di  giubilo,  so 
brilliant  and  animated,  did  you  not  feel  in  your  heart 
the  rhythm  of  that  sacred  Pyrrhic  dance  of  which 
King  David  speaks  in  his  Psalms,  and  which  he 
represents  the  hills  as  executing?" 

"  Yes,  it  would  make  a  charming  tune  for  a  contra- 
dance!"  said  the  physician. 

"French!  French!  always  French!"  cried  the 
duchess,  checked  at  the  very  height  of  her  exalta- 
tion by  that  sharp  thrust.  "  Yes,  you  are  capable 
of  using  that  sublime  outburst,  so  joyous,  so  noble 
in  its  blithesomeness,  for  your  rigadoons!  A  sublime 
poetic  conception  never  obtains  favor  in  your  eyes. 
The  loftiest  genius,  saints,  kings,  the  unfortunate, 
all  that  is  most  sacred  on  earth,  must  run  the  gaunt- 
let of  your  caricature!  The  vulgarization  of  great 
ideas  by  your  jig-tunes  is  caricature  in  music.  Among 
you  Frenchmen  the  mind  kills  the  soul,  as  constant 
arguing  kills  common  sense." 


1 86  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

The  whole  box  remained  silent  during  the  recita- 
tive between  Osiris  and  Membre,  who  conspire  to 
neutralize  the  order  for  the  departure  of  the  Hebrews 
given  by  Pharaoh. 

"  Have  I  vexed  you  ?"  the  doctor  asked  the  duch- 
ess; "  if  so,  I  am  in  despair.  Your  words  are  like  a 
magic  wand ;  they  open  compartments  in  my  brain 
from  which  novel  ideas  come  forth,  inspired  by  this 
sublime  music." 

"  No,"  she  replied.  "  You  have  praised  our  great 
musician  after  your  fashion.  Rossini  will  succeed 
among  you,  I  am  sure,  by  virtue  of  his  cleverness 
and  sensuousness.  Let  us  hope,  too,  that  there  are 
some  noble  souls,  in  love  with  the  ideal,  to  be  found 
in  your  fruitful  country,  who  will  appreciate  the 
elevation,  the  grandeur,  of  such  music. — Ah!  this  is 
the  famous  duo  between  Elcia  and  Osiris,"  she  con- 
tinued, making  the  most  of  the  time  afforded  by  the 
triple  round  of  applause  with  which  the  pit  welcomed 
La  Tinti  on  her  first  appearance.  "  If  La  Tinti  has 
thoroughly  mastered  the  r61e  of  Elcia,  you  will  hear 
the  sublime  song  of  a  woman  distracted  by  the  con- 
flict between  love  of  country  and  love  for  one  of  her 
oppressors,  whereas  Osiris,  possessed  by  a  frantic 
passion  for  his  lovely  conquest,  strives  to  retain  her. 
The  opera  is  based  upon  this  great  theme,  no  less 
than  upon  the  resistance  of  the  Pharaohs  to  the 
power  of  God  and  of  liberty;  you  must  fix  it  in  your 
mind,  or  you  will  fail  to  comprehend  this  far-reach- 
ing work.  Notwithstanding  the  disfavor  with  which 
you  accept  the  inventions  of  our  librettists,  you  will 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  187 

allow  me  to  call  your  attention  to  the  art  with  which 
this  drama  is  constructed.  The  antagonism  which  is 
essential  to  all  fine  works,  and  so  favorable  to  the 
proper  development  of  the  music,  is  duly  provided. 
What  more  fruitful  theme  than  a  people  longing  for 
liberty,  held  in  bondage  by  bad  faith,  sustained  by 
God,  multiplying  prodigies  of  courageous  effort  to 
gain  their  liberty?  What  more  dramatic  than  the 
prince's  love  for  a  Jewess,  which  almost  justifies  the 
treachery  of  the  oppressor?  And  yet  all  this  is  set 
forth  in  this  bold,  this  superb  musical  poem,  wherein 
Rossini  has  preserved  the  legendary  national  char- 
acteristics of  each  people,  for  we  have  attributed  to 
them  a  historical  grandeur  to  which  all  imaginative 
minds  assent.  The  hymns  of  the  Hebrews,  and 
their  confidence  in  God,  are  constantly  contrasted 
with  the  cries  of  rage  and  the  struggles  of  Pharaoh, 
who  is  depicted  in  the  fulness  of  his  power.  At  this 
moment,  Osiris,  absorbed  by  his  love,  hopes  to 
retain  his  mistress  by  evoking  memories  of  all  the 
delights  of  passion,  he  strives  to  prevail  over 
the  attractions  of  nationality.  Thus  you  will  recog- 
nize the  divine  languor,  the  melting  ardor,  the 
caresses,  the  voluptuous  memories  of  oriental  love 
in  Osiris's  Ah!  se  puoi  cosi  lasciarmi! — If  thou  hast 
the  courage  to  leave  me,  break  my  heart ! — and  in 
Elcia's  reply:  Ma  perche  cosi  stra^iarmi! — Why  tor- 
ment me  thus,  when  my  grief  is  beyond  words! — 
No,  two  hearts  so  melodiously  united  could  never 
part,"  she  continued,  glancing  at  the  prince.  "  But 
the  lovers  are  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  triumphant 


1 88  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

voice  of  the  fatherland  thundering  in  the  distance 
and  calling  Elcia  away.  What  a  divine  and  delicious 
allegro,  this  motive  of  the  march  of  the  Hebrews  on 
their  way  to  the  desert!  Only  Rossini  can  make  the 
clarinets  and  trumpets  say  so  much!  An  art  which 
can  tell  in  two  phrases  all  that  one's  country  is  to 
one,  is  surely  nearer  heaven  than  others,  is  it  not? 
This  trumpet-call  always  moves  me  so  deeply  that 
I  cannot  describe  the  cruel  sensation  of  those  who 
are  slaves  and  in  chains  when  they  see  their  more 
fortunate  brethren  go  free!" 

The  duchess's  eyes  were  wet  as  she  listened  to 
the  magnificent  motive  which  in  truth  predominates 
throughout  the  opera. 

"  Dov'e  mai  quel  core  amante!" — What  loving 
heart  would  not  share  my  agony! — she  continued,  in 
Italian,  when  La  Tinti  began  the  beautiful  cantilena 
passage  of  the  stretto,  in  which  she  implores  pity  for 
her  suffering. — "  But  what  is  happening?  there  is 
muttering  in  the  pit." 

"  Genovese  is  braying  like  a  stag,"  said  the  prince. 

In  truth,  this  duet,  the  first  that  La  Tinti  sang, 
was  sadly  marred  by  the  utter  failure  of  Genovese. 
As  soon  as  the  tenor  began  to  sing  with  La  Tinti, 
his  beautiful  voice  changed.  His  excellent  method, 
which  recalled  Crescentini  and  Veluti  at  the  same 
time,  he  seemed  to  have  studiously  forgotten.  Some- 
times the  effect  was  spoiled  by  holding  a  note  at  the 
wrong  time,  or  by  a  too  prolonged  flourish.  Some- 
times a  tremendous  outburst  without  transition,  a 
volume  of  sound  poured  forth  like  nature  through  an 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  189 

open  floodgate,  showed  complete  and  wilful  forgetful- 
ness  of  the  laws  of  good  taste.  Wherefore  the  pit 
was  immeasurably  excited.  The  Venetians  believed 
that  there  was  some  wager  between  Genovese  and 
his  fellows.  La  Tinti  was  recalled  and  frantically 
applauded,  while  Genovese  received  certain  warnings 
which  enlightened  him  as  to  the  hostile  disposition 
of  the  pit.  Throughout  this  scene,  which  was  comi- 
cal enough  to  a  Frenchman,  La  Tinti  being  con- 
stantly recalled, — she  appeared  alone  eleven  times 
to  acknowledge  the  wild  applause  of  the  audience, 
for  Genovese,  who  was  almost  hissed,  dared  not 
lead  her  before  the  curtain, — the  physician  made  a 
remark  to  the  duchess  concerning  the  stretto  of  the 
duet. 

"  Rossini  ought  to  express  the  most  profound  grief 
at  this  point,"  he  said,  "and  it  seems  to  me  that 
there  is  a  careless  swing  to  the  music,  a  tinge  of 
mirthfulness  exceedingly  inappropriate." 

"You  are  right,"  replied  the  duchess.  "That 
fault  is  the  result  of  one  of  the  tyrannical  laws 
which  our  composers  must  need^  obey.  He  thought 
more  of  -his  prima-donna  than  of  Elcia  when  he 
wrote  that  stretto.  But  to-day,  even  though  La  Tinti 
should  execute  it  even  more  brilliantly,  I  enter  so 
thoroughly  into  the  spirit  of  the  work,  that  this  too 
lively  passage  is  overflowing  with  melancholy  in  my 
eyes." 

The  physician  closely  scrutinized  the  prince  and 
the  duchess  in  turn,  but  could  not  divine  what  it 
was  that  separated  them  and  made  that  duet  so 


190  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

heart-rending  to  them.  Massimilla  lowered  her  voice, 
and  put  her  lips  nearer  the  doctor's  ear. 

"Now  you  are  about  to  hear  a  superb  passage: 
Pharaoh's  plot  against  the  Hebrews.  The  majestic 
aria,  A  rispettar  mi  apprenda! — Let  him  learn  to  re- 
spect me! — is  Carthagenova's  triumph;  he  will  give 
us  a  marvellously  faithful  rendering  of  wounded 
pride,  of  the  duplicity  of  courts.  The  throne  is 
about  to  speak:  it  withdraws  the  concessions  it  has 
made,  it  gives  a  free  rein  to  its  wrath.  Pharaoh 
will  rise  in  his  might  to  pounce  upon  a  victim  who 
is  escaping  him.  Rossini  has  never  written  anything 
of  so  noble  a  character,  anything  so  instinct  with 
abundant,  resistless  energy!  It  is  a  complete  work 
in  itself,  supported  by  an  accompaniment  of  marvel- 
lous workmanship,  like  every  part  of  this  opera,  in 
which  the  power  of  youth  sparkles  everywhere, 
even  in  the  most  trivial  details." 

Universal  applause  greeted  this  beautiful  concep- 
tion, which  was  admirably  rendered  by  the  artist, 
and  most  thoroughly  understood  by  the  Venetians. 

"This  is  the  finale,"  continued  the  duchess. 
"Once  more  you  hear  the  march,  inspired  by  the 
joy  of  deliverance,  and  by  the  trust  in  God  which 
enables  a  whole  people  cheerfully  to  plunge  into  the 
desert!  What  lungs  would  not  be  refreshed  by  the 
divine  outbursts  of  this  people  on  their  relief  from 
bondage?  Ah!  cherished  living  melodies!  Glory  to 
the  noble  genius  who  has  been  able  to  express  such 
a  multitude  of  sentiments!  There  is  an  indefinable 
suggestion  of  the  warlike  spirit  in  this  march,  which 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  191 

says  that  this  people  has  the  Lord  of  Hosts  on  its 
side!  What  profound  meaning  in  these  hymns,  full 
of  prayers  for  succor!  The  images  of  the  Bible 
wake  to  life  in  our  hearts,  and  this  sublime  musical 
scene  enables  us  to  be  present  in  the  flesh  at  one  of 
the  grandest  scenes  in  the  history  of  an  ancient  and 
solemn  world.  The  religious  coloring  of  certain  vocal 
passages,  the  way  in  which  the  voices  come  in  one 
after  another,  each  swelling  the  volume  of  those 
that  precede  it,  express  all  that  we  can  imagine  of 
the  sacred  marvels  of  that  first  age  of  mankind. 
And  yet  this  beautiful  concerted  passage  is  simply 
a  development  of  the  theme  of  the  march  to  its 
furthest  musical  consequences.  That  theme  is  the 
fertilizing  essence  for  orchestra  and  voices,  for  the 
singing  and  the  brilliant  instrumentation  by  which 
it  is  accompanied. — Now  Elcia  joins  the  multitude, 
and  is  made  by  Rossini  to  give  expression  to  regret- 
ful thoughts,  in  order  to  moderate  somewhat  the  joy- 
ous spirit  of  the  passage.  Listen  to  her  duet  with 
Amenofi.  Did  ever  wounded  love  emit  such  strains? 
They  breathe  the  charm  of  the  nocturne;  there  is  in 
them  the  secret  lamentation  of  wounded  love.  What 
intense  sadness!  Ah!  the  desert  will  be  twice  a 
desert  to  her! — At  last  comes  the  terrible  struggle 
between  Egypt  and  the  Hebrews!  the  prevailing 
gladness,  the  joyous  march,  everything  is  inter- 
rupted by  the  arrival  of  the  Egyptians.  The  pro- 
mulgation of  Pharaoh's  commands  is  accompanied 
by  a  musical  conception  which  predominates  in  the 
finale,  a  low,  solemn  measure;  one  seems  to  hear 


IQ2  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

the  march  of  the  Egyptian's  mighty  hosts  surround- 
ing God's  devoted  phalanx,  enveloping  it  slowly  as 
a  long  African  serpent  envelops  its  prey.  What 
graceful  melody  in  the  lamentations  of  this  outraged 
people!  is  it  not  slightly  more  Italian  than  Hebrew? 
What  a  magnificent  movement  up  to  the  arrival  of 
Pharaoh,  which  alone  was  lacking  to  bring  all  the 
leaders  of  the  two  peoples  and  all  the  passions  of 
the  drama  face  to  face!  What  an  admirable  blend- 
ing of  emotions  in  the  sublime  octet,  in  which  the 
wrath  of  Moses  and  of  the  two  Pharaohs  confront 
each  other!  what  a  contest  of  voices  and  of  un- 
chained passion!  Never  did  a  vaster  subject  sug- 
gest itself  to  a  composer.  The  famous  finale  of  Don 
Giovanni  simply  exhibits  a  libertine  face  to  face  with 
his  victims,  who  call  down  divine  vengeance  upon 
him;  while  here  earth  and  its  powers  endeavor  to 
contend  against  God.  Two  peoples,  one  weak,  the 
other  strong,  are  on  the  stage.  And  Rossini,  having 
all  possible  materials  at  his  disposal,  has  employed 
them  with  marvellous  skill.  He  has  succeeded, 
without  making  himself  ridiculous,  in  representing 
the  different  stages  of  a  fierce  tempest,  against 
which  as  a  background  horrible  imprecations  stand 
out  in  relief.  He  has  employed  simple  chords,  ar- 
ranged sur  une  rhythme  en  trois  temps,  with  a 
gloomy  musical  energy,  with  a  persistence  which 
overpowers  you  at  last.  The  rage  of  the  Egyptians 
when  surprised  by  a  rain  of  fire,  the  cries  of  the 
Hebrews  for  revenge,  demanded  skilfully  arranged 
ensemble  effects:  see,  for  instance,  how  he  has 


MASSIMILLA    DONI  193 

developed  the  orchestral  parts  side  by  side  with  the 
choruses!  The  allegro  assai  in  C  minor  is  positively 
terrible  amid  that  deluge  of  fire. — Confess,"  said  the 
duchess,  as  Moses,  raising  his  staff,  causes  the  rain 
of  fire  to  fall,  and  the  composer  puts  forth  all  his 
power  in  the  orchestra  and  on  the  stage,  "confess 
that  no  music  ever  depicted  turmoil  and  confusion  so 
perfectly." 

"The  pit  has  caught  the  infection,"  said  the 
physician. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter?  The  pit  is  certainly 
very  much  wrought  up!"  rejoined  the  duchess. 

In  the  finale,  Genovese  had  indulged  in  such  ab- 
surdly ill-rendered  roulades  when  singing  with  La 
Tinti,  that  the  uproar  in  the  pit  had  reached  its 
height,  the  enjoyment  of  the  habitues  being  sadly 
interfered  with.  There  is  nothing  more  offensive 
to  Italian  ears  than  the  contrast  between  good  and 
bad !  The  manager  appeared  before  the  curtain, 
and  said  that  he  had  called  his  leading  gentleman's 
attention  to  the  state  of  affairs,  and  that  II  Signor 
Genovese  replied  that  he  had  no  idea  wherein  and 
by  what  means  he  had  forfeited  the  favor  of  the 
public  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was  striving  to 
reach  perfection  in  his  art. 

"  Let  him  be  as  bad  as  he  was  yesterday  and  we 
will  be  content!"  retorted  Capraja,  angrily. 

This  apostrophe  restored  good  humor  in  the  pit. 
Contrary  to  the  custom  in  Italy,  little  heed  was 
paid  to  the  ballet.  In  all  the  boxes  the  only  sub- 
jects of  conversation  were  Genovese's  extraordinary 
13 


194  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

behavior  and  the  speech  of  the  unfortunate  manager. 
Those  who  were  privileged  to  enter  the  wings  has- 
tened thither  to  learn  the  secret  of  the  comedy,  and 
soon  everyone  was  talking  of  a  horrible  scene  be- 
tween La  Tinti  and  Genovese,  in  which  the  prima- 
donna  charged  the  tenor  with  being  jealous  of  her 
success,  with  embarrassing  her  acting  by  his  absurd 
conduct,  and  with  actually  trying  to  spoil  her  effects 
in  depicting  passion.  The  singer  wept  hot  tears 
over  this  misfortune.  She  had  hoped,  she  said,  to 
afford  pleasure  to  her  lover,  who  was  to  be  in  the 
audience,  but  whom  she  had  been  unable  to  discover. 
One  must  be  acquainted  with  the  placid  every- 
day life  of  the  Venetians,  so  devoid  of  incident  that 
a  slight  misunderstanding  between  two  lovers,  or 
the  temporary  deterioration  of  a  singer's  voice,  is 
discussed  as  earnestly  as  political  affairs  are  dis- 
cussed in  England,  to  realize  the  excitement  in  La 
Fenice  and  at  the  Cafe  Florian.  La  Tinti  in  love, 
La  Tinti  prevented  from  displaying  all  her  talents, 
Genovese's  madness,  or  the  vile  trick  he  was  play- 
ing, under  the  inspiration  of  the  artistic  jealousy 
which  Italians  know  so  well, — what  a  rich  field  for 
animated  discussions!  The  whole  pit  chattered  as 
men  chatter  at  the  Bourse,  and  the  result  was  an 
uproar  well  adapted  to  surprise  a  Frenchman  accus- 
tomed to  the  calm  atmosphere  of  Parisian  theatres. 
All  the  boxes  were  in  commotion  like  hives  in  which 
bees  are  swarming.  There  was  one  man,  and  but 
one,  who  took  no  part  in  the  tumult.  Emilio  Memmi 
turned  his  back  on  the  stage,  and,  with  his  eyes  fixed 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  195 

sadly  on  Massimilla,  seemed  to  live  only  by  her 
glances;  he  had  not  once  looked  at  the  singer. 

"  I  have  no  need,  caro  carino,  to  ask  the  result  of 
my  negotiation,"  Vendramin  said  to  Emilio.  "  Your 
Massimilla,  chaste  and  religious  as  she  is,  was  sub- 
limely compliant;  in  short,  she  was  another  La  Tinti, 
was  she  not?" 

The  prince  replied  with  a  movement  of  the  head 
instinct  with  heart-rending  melancholy. 

"  Your  love  has  not  deserted  the  ethereal  summits 
over  which  you  soar,"  continued  Vendramin,  ex- 
cited by  his  opium;  "  it  has  not  become  materialized. 
This  morning,  as  on  other  mornings  six  months  since, 
you  smelt  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  that  display 
their  fragrant  petals  beneath  the  arches  of  your  im- 
measurably enlarged  skull.  Your  swollen  heart  re- 
ceived all  your  blood,  and  caused  an  obstruction  in 
your  throat.  Ravishing  sensations  developed  here," 
he  said,  laying  his  hand  upon  Emilio's  breast.  "  Mas- 
similla's  voice  reached  your  ears  in  luminous  waves, 
her  hand  set  free  a  thousand  imprisoned  joys,  which 
abandoned  the  folds  of  your  brain  to  form  a  hazy 
group  about  you  and  to  bear  you  away,  light  of 
body,  clad  in  purple,  to  the  azure  sky  above  the 
snow-topped  mountains  where  the  pure  love  of  an- 
gels dwells.  The  smile  and  the  kisses  of  her  lips 
clothed  you  in  a  noxious  robe  which  consumed  the 
last  vestiges  of  your  earthly  nature.  Her  eyes  were 
two  stars  which  transformed  you  into  shadowless 
light.  You  were  like  two  angels  prostrate  upon 
celestial  palms,  waiting  until  the  gates  of  paradise 


196  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

should  open;  but  they  turned  laboriously  on  their 
hinges,  and  in  your  impatience  you  struck  at  them 
but  could  not  reach  them.  Your  hand  met  naught  but 
clouds  more  active  than  your  desire.  Your  lover, 
bathed  in  light  and  crowned  with  white  roses  like  a 
celestial  fiancee,  wept  at  your  frenzy.  Perhaps  she 
repeated  melodious  prayers  to  the  Virgin,  while  the 
devilish  lusts  of  the  flesh  breathed  their  infamous 
counsel  into  your  ears;  thereupon  you  despised  the 
divine  fruits  of  this  ecstatic  trance  in  which  I  live  at 
the  expense  of  my  vital  forces." 

"Your  drunken  vision,  dear  Vendramin,"  said 
Emilio,  calmly,  "falls  short  of  the  reality.  Who 
could  describe  that  purely  physical  languor  which 
follows  the  abuse  of  the  pleasures  we  have  dreamed 
of,  and  which  leaves  to  the  heart  its  never-ending 
desire,  to  the  mind  its  faculties  unimpaired?  But  1 
am  weary  of  this  torture  which  enables  me  to  appre- 
ciate what  Tantalus  suffered.  This  night  will  be  the 
last  of  my  nights.  Having  put  forth  my  last  effort, 
I  will  give  back  her  child  to  our  mother,  the  Adriatic 
will  receive  my  last  breath — " 

"What  an  idiot  you  are!"  replied  Vendramin; 
"  but  no,  you  are  mad,  for  madness,  that  mental 
paroxysm  which  we  despise,  is  the  memory  of  a 
previous  state  which  becomes  confused  with  our 
present  form.  The  genius  of  my  dreams  has  told 
me  these  things  and  many  others!  You  wish  to 
combine  the  duchess  and  La  Tinti;  but  take  them 
separately,  my  dear  Emilio:  that  will  be  the  wiser 
way.  Raphael  alone  has  combined  form  and  idea. 


MASSIMILLA    DONI  197 

You  wish  to  be  Raphael  in  love;  but  one  cannot 
create  chance.  Raphael  was  a  chance  hit  of  the 
Everlasting  Father,  who  created  form  and  idea  hos- 
tile to  each  other;  otherwise  nothing  would  live. 
When  the  elements  are  more  powerful  than  the 
result,  nothing  is  produced.  We  must  be  either  on 
earth  or  in  heaven.  Remain  in  heaven,  and  even 
then  you  will  return  to  earth  only  too  soon." 

"  I  will  take  the  duchess  home,"  said  the  prince, 
"  and  risk  my  last  attempt.  And  then?" 

"And  then,"  said  Vendramin,  hastily,  "  promise 
to  come  to  the  Florian  for  me." 

"Very  well." 


This  conversation,  being  carried  on  in  modern 
Greek  by  Vendramin  and  the  prince,  who  knew 
that  language  as  many  Venetians  know  it,  was  not 
understood  by  the  duchess  and  the  Frenchman.  Al- 
though quite  outside  of  the  circle  of  interest  which 
contained  the  duchess,  Vendramin,  and  Emilio, — for 
the  three  understood  one  another  perfectly  through 
the  medium  of  the  glances  they  exchanged,  shrewd 
Italian  glances,  penetrating,  veiled,  furtive  by  turns, — 
the  physician  eventually  discovered  a  part  of  the 
truth.  An  ardent  entreaty  addressed  by  the  duch- 
ess to  Vendramin  was  the  cause  of  that  young  Vene- 
tian's proposition  to  Emilio,  for  La  Cataneo  had 
caught  scent  of  the  suffering  her  lover  endured  in 
the  pure  atmosphere  in  which  he  had  lost  his  way, 
although  she  had  not  come  upon  the  trail  of  LaTinti. 

"  Those  two  young  men  are  mad,"  said  the  phy- 
sician. 

"  As  to  the  prince,"  replied  the  duchess,  "leave 
his  cure  to  me;  as  to  Vendramin,  if  he  has  failed 
to  comprehend  this  sublime  music,  he  may  well  be 
incurable." 

"  If  you  would  tell  me  the  cause  of  their  madness, 
I  would  cure  them,"  rejoined  the  doctor. 

"  Since  when  have  great  physicians  ceased  to 
have  the  power  of  divination?"  queried  the  duchess, 
mockingly. 

(199) 


200  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

The  ballet  had  ended  long  before.  The  second 
act  of  Moses  began,  and  the  pit  paid  close  attention. 
There  was  a  rumor  that  Duke  Cataneo  had  taken 
Genovese  to  task,  pointing  out  to  him  how  much 
injury  he  was  doing  Clarina,  the  diva  of  the  day. 
Everyone  anticipated  a  sublime  second  act. 

"  The  prince  and  his  father  open  the  scene,"  said 
the  duchess;  "they  have  yielded  once  more,  heaping 
insults  on  the  Hebrews,  but  they  are  quivering  with 
rage.  The  father  is  consoled  by  his  son's  approach- 
ing marriage,  and  the  son  is  in  despair  because  of 
this  obstacle  to  his  passion,  which,  being  thwarted 
on  all  sides,  becomes  more  violent.  Genovese  and 
Carthagenova  sing  admirably  together.  You  see, 
the  tenor  is  making  his  peace  with  the  pit.  How 
well  he  brings  out  the  richness  of  the  music!  The 
phrase,  recited  by  the  son  on  the  tonic,  repeated  by 
the  father  on  the  dominant,  belongs  to  the  simple 
and  solemn  system  upon  which  this  score  is  writ- 
ten, the  sobriety  of  the  method  making  the  fertility 
of  the  music  even  more  astounding.  Egypt  is  put 
before  us  to  the  life.  I  do  not  believe  that  there 
is  any  modern  composition  so  instinct  with  noble 
dignity.  The  grave  and  majestic  fatherhood  of  a 
king  is  expressed  in  that  magnificent  phrase  which 
is  in  perfect  conformity  with  the  grandeur  of  style 
which  prevails  throughout  the  work.  Surely  the  son 
of  a  Pharaoh  pouring  out  his  grief  upon  his  father's 
bosom  until  the  father  himself  shares  it  cannot  be 
more  fitly  represented  than  by  these  stately  images. 
Do  you  not  find  in  your  own  mind  a  sentiment  akin 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  2OI 

to  the  splendor  which  we  attribute  to  this  ancient 
monarchy?" 

"  It  is  sublime  music!"  said  the  Frenchman. 

"  The  air,  Pace  mia  smarrita,  which  the  queen  is 
about  to  sing,  is  one  of  the  artificial  bravura  airs 
which  all  composers  are  condemned  to  introduce, 
and  which  mar  the  general  design  of  the  poem;  but 
often  their  operas  would  not  exist  at  all  if  they  did 
not  flatter  the  prima-donna's  self-esteem.  Neverthe- 
less, this  musical  sugar-plum  is  so  broadly  treated 
that  it  is  given  textually  in  all  theatres.  It  is  so 
brilliant  that  prima-donnas  never  substitute  their 
favorite  air  for  it,  as  in  most  operas.  Then  comes 
the  crowning  point  of  the  scene,  the  duet  between 
Osiris  and  Elcia  in  the  underground  passage,  where 
he  proposes  to  conceal  her  in  order  to  detach  her 
from  the  Hebrews  who  are  about  to  depart,  and  to 
fly  from  Egypt  with  her.  The  two  lovers  are  inter- 
rupted by  the  arrival  of  Aaron,  who  had  gone  to 
warn  Amalthea,  and  we  hear  the  king  of  quartets: 
Mi  manca  la  voce,  mi  sento  morire.  This  mi  manca 
la  voce  is  one  of  the  masterpieces  which  will  with- 
stand everything,  even  time,  that  great  destroyer  of 
fashions  in  music,  for  it  is  taken  from  the  language 
of  the  heart,  which  never  varies.  Mozart  has  his 
famous  finale  of  Don  Giovanni,  Marcello  his  psalm 
Codi  enarrant  gloriam  Dei,  Cimarosa  his  Pria  che 
spunti,  Beethoven  his  Symphony  in  C  minor,  Per- 
golesi  his  Stabat;  and  Rossini  will  always  retain  his 
Mi  manca  la  voce.  The  marvellous  facility  with 
which  he  varies  the  form  of  his  work  is  especially 


202  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

to  be  admired  in  Rossini;  to  obtain  this  great  effect, 
he  has  had  recourse  to  the  old  method  of  the  canon 
in  unison,  to  blend  all  his  voices  in  the  same  melody. 
As  the  form  of  these  sublime  cantileni  was  novel,  he 
placed  it  in  an  old  frame;  and  to  bring  it  into  bolder 
relief,  he  omitted  all  orchestral  accompaniment  except 
by  the  harps.  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  more  spirit 
in  the  details,  more  grandeur  in  the  general  effect. — 
Great  Heaven!  more  disturbance!"  exclaimed  the 
duchess. 

Genovese,  who  had  sung  his  duo  with  Carthage- 
nova  so  admirably,  betrayed  his  animus  against 
La  Tinti.  He  was  transformed  from  a  great  singer 
into  the  most  wretched  of  choristers.  The  most 
horrible  uproar  ensued  that  ever  shook  the  walls 
of  La  Fenice.  The  tumult  yielded  only  to  the  voice  of 
La  Tinti,  who,  infuriated  by  the  obstacle  placed  in 
her  path  by  Genovese's  obstinacy,  sang  Mi  manca 
la  voce  as  no  other  singer  will  ever  sing  it.  The 
enthusiasm  reached  its  highest  pitch,  the  spectators 
passed  from  angry  excitement  to  the  most  intense 
delight. 

"She  pours  purple  floods  into  my  soul,"  said 
Capraja,  blessing  La  Diva  Tinti  with  extended 
hand. 

"  May  Heaven  exhaust  its  favors  on  her  head !" 
cried  a  gondolier. 

"  Pharaoh  is  about  to  revoke  his  orders,"  said  the 

duchess,  while  the  tumult  in  the  pit  was  subsiding. 

"  Moses  will  strike  him  down  upon  his  throne  by 

( announcing  the  death  of  all  the  first-born  of  Egypt, 


MASS1MILLA   DONI  203 

and  singing  the  air  of  vengeance  which  contains  the 
thunders  of  heaven,  and  in  which  the  Hebrew  clarions 
ring  out.  But  let  me  tell  you  first  that  it  is  an  air 
written  by  Pacini,  which  Carthagenova  substitutes 
for  Rossini's.  This  air,  Paventa,  will  undoubtedly 
remain  in  the  score;  it  affords  too  good  an  oppor- 
tunity for  the  basses  to  display  the  richness  of  their 
voices,  and  in  this  case  expression  will  prevail  over 
science.  However,  the  air  is  magnificently  threaten- 
ing, so  I  do  not  know  if  we  shall  be  allowed  to  hear 
it  sung  very  long." 

A  salvo  of  applause  and  bravos,  followed  by  a 
profound  and  prudent  silence,  welcomed  the  air; 
nothing  could  be  more  significant  or  more  thoroughly 
Venetian  than  that  bold  outburst,  so  quickly  re- 
pressed. 

"  I  will  say  nothing  of  the  tempo  di  marcia  which 
ushers  in  the  coronation  of  Osiris,  whereby  the 
father  seeks  to  defy  Moses's  threat:  it  is  enough  to 
listen  to  it.  Their  famous  Beethoven  has  written 
nothing  more  magnificent.  Full  to  overflowing  of 
terrestrial  pomp,  it  forms  an  admirable  contrast  to 
the  march  of  the  Hebrews;  compare  them,  and  you 
will  see  that  the  music  in  this  instance  is  inconceiv- 
ably fertile  in  resources.  Elcia  avows  her  love  to 
the  faces  of  the  two  leaders  of  the  Hebrews;  and 
renounces  it  in  the  beautiful  air,  Porge  la  destra 
amata — Bestow  upon  another  thy  adored  hand. — Ah! 
what  heart-rending  sorrow! — Watch  the  audience!" 

"Bravo!"  cried  the  pit,  when  Genovese  was 
crushed. 


204  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

"  Now  we  shall  hear  La  Tinti,  happily  rid  of  her 
deplorable  companion,  sing  O  desolata  Elcial  the 
terrible  cavatina  in  which  a  love  reproved  of  God 
shrieks  aloud  in  its  despair." 

"Where  art  thou,  Rossini,  that  thou  canst  not 
hear  the  music  which  thy  genius  dictated  to  thee, 
so  magnificently  rendered?"  said  Cataneo. — "  Is  not 
Clarina  his  equal?"  he  asked  Capraja.  "  To  vivify 
these  notes  with  puffs  of  flame  which,  starting  from 
the  lungs,  are  magnified  in  the  air  by  the  addition  of 
some  indefinable  winged  substances  which  our  ears 
drink  in  and  which  exalt  us  to  the  sky  in  an  amor- 
ous ecstasy,  one  must  be  a  god!" 

"  She  is  like  the  beautiful  Indian  plant  which 
springs  from  the  earth,  gathers  invisible  nourish- 
ment from  the  air,  and  sends  forth  from  its  rounded 
calyx,  in  a  white  spiral,  clouds  of  perfume  which 
cause  dreams  to  bloom  in  our  brains,"  replied 
Capraja. 

La  Tinti,  being  recalled,  appeared  alone;  she  re- 
Reived  kisses  innumerable  which  the  whole  audience 
wafted  to  her  with  the  tips  of  their  fingers;  they 
threw  roses  to  her,  and  a  wreath  to  which  the 
women  contributed  flowers  from  their  bonnets, 
almost  all  made  by  Parisian  milliners.  A  repetition 
of  the  cavatina  was  demanded. 

"  How  impatiently  Capraja,  the  lover  of  the  rou- 
lade, awaited  this  piece,  which  depends  entirely 
upon  the  manner  of  its  execution  for  its  value!"  said 
the  duchess.  "  In  it  Rossini  has,  so  to  speak,  placed 
a  curb  on  the  rein  of  the  artist's  imagination.  The 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  20$ 

roulade  and  the  singer's  frame  of  mind  are  every- 
thing. With  a  mediocre  voice  or  execution,  it  would 
amount  to  nothing.  The  windpipe  has  to  display  the 
brilliant  features  of  this  passage.  The  singer  is  sup- 
posed to  express  the  most  poignant  of  all  sorrows, 
that  of  a  woman  who  sees  her  lover  die  before  her 
eyes!  La  Tinti,  you  understand,  makes  the  theatre 
ring  with  her  highest  notes,  and,  in  order  to  leave  full 
liberty  to  pure  art,  to  the  voice,  Rossini  has  written 
here  some  very  clear,  sharply-defined  phrases;  by  a 
supreme  effort,  he  invented  those  heart-rending  mu- 
sical exclamations:  Tormenti!  affanni!  smaniel — 
What  outcries!  what  intense  pain  in  those  roulades! 
La  Tinti,  you  see,  has  carried  the  whole  audience 
off  its  feet  by  her  sublime  efforts." 

The  Frenchman,  dumfounded  by  this  amorous 
frenzy  of  a  whole  theatre  for  the  source  of  its  en- 
joyment, caught  a  glimpse  of  Italy  as  it  really  is; 
but  neither  the  duchess  nor  Vendramin  nor  Emilio 
paid  the  slightest  heed  to  the  ovation  to  La  Tinti, 
who  began  the  cavatina  anew.  The  duchess  was 
afraid  that  it  was  the  last  time  she  should  see  her 
Hmilio;  as  for  the  prince,  in  the  presence  of  the 
duchess,  that  imposing  divinity  who  bore  him  up 
to  heaven,  he  knew  not  where  he  was,  he  did  not 
hear  the  voluptuous  voice  of  the  woman  who  had 
initiated  him  in  earthly  pleasures,  for  he  was  op- 
pressed by  a  deathly  melancholy,  and  in  his  ears 
there  was  a  concert  of  plaintive  voices  accompanied 
by  a  plashing  noise  like  that  of  a  heavy  shower. 
Vendramin,  in  the  guise  of  an  ancient  procurator, 


206  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

fancied  that  he  was  watching  the  ceremony  of  the 
Bucentaur.  The  Frenchman,  who  had  at  last  divined 
the  existence  of  a  strange  and  painful  mystery  be- 
tween the  prince  and  the  duchess,  indulged  in  a 
multitude  of  conjectures  to  explain  it  to  himself. 
The  scene  had  changed.  In  the  midst  of  a  beautiful 
stage-setting  representing  the  Desert  and  the  Red 
Sea,  the  Egyptians  and  Hebrews  went  through  their 
evolutions  without  diverting  the  thoughts  of  the  four 
persons  who  occupied  the  box.  But,  when  the  first 
chords  of  the  harps  introduced  the  prayer  of  the  de- 
livered Hebrews,  the  prince  and  Vendramin  rose  and 
leaned,  each  against  one  of  the  partitions  of  the  box, 
while  the  duchess  rested  her  elbow  on  the  velvet 
rail,  and  her  head  on  her  left  hand. 

The  Frenchman,  warned  by  these  movements  of 
the  importance  attached  by  the  whole  audience  to 
this  justly  famous  scene,  listened  religiously.  The 
entire  house  joined  in  demanding  a  repetition  of  the 
prayer,  applauding  it  with  boundless  enthusiasm. 

"  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  present  at  the 
liberation  of  Italy,"  thought  a  Milanese. 

"  This  music  raises  the  bent  head,  and  gives  hope 
to  the  most  benumbed  heart!"  cried  a  Roman. 

"  Now,"  said  the  duchess  to  the  Frenchman,  whose 
emotion  was  visible,  "science  disappears;  inspiration 
alone  dictated  this  masterpiece,  it  came  from  the 
heart,  like  a  cry  of  love!  As  for  the  accompani- 
ment, it  consists  of  arpeggios  on  the  harps,  and  the 
orchestral  score  is  not  developed  until  the  last  repe- 
tition of  this  celestial  theme.  Rossini  will  never  rise 


MASSIMILLA    DONI  207 

higher  than  in  this  prayer;  he  will  do  quite  as  well, 
never  better;  the  sublime  always  resembles  itself, 
but  this  hymn  is  another  one  of  the  things  which  will 
belong  to  him  alone.  The  fellow  of  such  a  conception 
can  be  found  only  in  the  psalms  of  the  divine  Marcello, 
a  noble  Venetian,  who  is  to  music  what  Giotto  is  to 
painting.  The  majesty  of  the  phrase,  which  as  it  is 
unrolled  before  us  presents  an  inexhaustible  source  of 
harmony,  equals  the  broadest  inventions  of  religious 
geniuses.  How  simple  the  method  !  Moses  attacks 
the  theme  in  G  minor  and  closes  with  a  cadenza  in 
B  flat,  which  enables  the  chorus  to  take  it  up  pianis- 
simo in  B  flat  and  return  with  a  cadenza  to  G  minor. 
This  noble  employment  of  the  voices,  repeated  thrice, 
ends  at  the  last  strophe  with  a  stretto  in  G  major,  the 
effect  of  which  upon  the  mind  is  bewildering.  It  is 
as  if  the  hymn  of  this  people,  first  freed  from  bond- 
age, as  it  ascends  heavenward,  meets  other  hymns 
descending  from  the  celestial  spheres.  The  stars 
respond  joyously  to  the  excitement  of  the  delivered 
earth.  The  periodic  sweep  of  these  motives,  the 
noble  stateliness  of  the  slow  gradations  which  lead 
the  way  to  the  grand  outburst  of  the  hymn,  and  its 
return  upon  itself,  develop  celestial  images  in  the 
mind.  Can  you  not  imagine  that  you  see  the  heavens 
opening,  the  angels  armed  with  their  golden  zithers, 
the  prostrate  seraphim  waving  their  perfume-laden 
censers,  and  the  archangels  leaning  on  their  flaming 
swords  which  have  just  overthrown  the  impious? 
The  secret  of  this  harmony,  which  refreshes  the 
thought,  is,  I  believe,  the  secret  of  certain  very  rare 


208  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

human  works:  it  casts  us  for  a  moment  into  infinity, 
we  are  conscious  of  it,  we  obtain  glimpses  of  it  in 
these  melodies  which  know  no  bounds,  like  those 
that  are  sung  around  God's  throne.  Rossini's 
genius  leads  us  to  a  prodigious  height.  Thence  we 
descry  a  promised  land  where  our  eyes,  caressed  by 
celestial  rays,  can  discover  no  horizon.  The  last 
cry  of  Elcia,  now  almost  cured,  connects  an  earthly 
passion  with  this  hymn  of  gratitude.  This  cantilena 
is  a  stroke  of  genius. 

"Sing!"  exclaimed  the  duchess,  as  she  heard  the 
last  strophe  executed,  as  it  was  listened  to,  with 
gloomy  enthusiasm;  "  sing,  you  are  free!" 

This  last  word  was  pronounced  in  a  tone  which 
made  the  physician  start;  and,  to  distract  the  duchess 
from  her  bitter  thoughts,  he  challenged  her,  during 
the  commotion  aroused  by  La  Tinti's  recalls,  to  one 
of  those  discussions  in  which  the  French  excel, 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  while  explaining  this  mas- 
terpiece, which,  thanks  to  you,  I  shall  come  to  see 
to-morrow  with  a  full  understanding  both  of  its 
methods  and  its  effects,  you  have  frequently  spoken 
of  the  color  of  music  and  of  what  music  paints;  but, 
speaking  as  an  analyst  and  a  materialist,  I  will  con- 
fess that  I  am  always  disgusted  by  the  attempt  of 
some  enthusiasts  to  make  us  believe  that  music 
paints  with  sounds.  Is  it  not  as  if  Raphael's  ad- 
mirers should  claim  that  he  sings  with  colors?" 

"In  musical  language,"  the  duchess  replied,  "to 
paint  is  to  awake  certain  memories  in  our  hearts  or 
certain  images  in  our  minds  by  certain  sounds,  and 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  2OQ 

these  memories,  these  images  have  their  color,  they 
are  bright  or  dull.  You  simply  cavil  over  words, 
that  is  all.  According  to  Capraja,  each  instrument 
has  its  mission  and  appeals  to  certain  ideas,  as  each 
color  corresponds  to  certain  of  our  emotions.  When 
you  are  looking  at  gilt  arabesques  on  a  blue  ground, 
do  you  have  the  same  thoughts  that  red  arabesques 
on  a  black  or  green  ground  arouse?  In  neither  style 
of  painting  are  there  any  figures,  any  sentiments 
expressed;  it  is  pure  art,  and  yet  nobody  can  remain 
unmoved  while  looking  at  them.  Has  not  the  haut- 
boy, like  almost  all  wind-instruments,  the  power  of 
evoking  images  of  the  country  in  all  minds?  Is  there 
not  something  warlike  in  the  sound  of  the  brasses, 
do  they  not  develop  in  us  sensations  that  are  not 
only  acute  but  somewhat  hysterical?  And  the 
strings,  whose  substance  is  derived  from  living 
creatures — do  not  they  attack  the  most  sensitive 
fibres  of  our  organization,  do  they  not  go  to  the  very 
bottom  of  our  hearts?  When  I  spoke  of  the  gloomy 
coloring,  of  the  lack  of  warmth  of  the  notes  employed 
in  the  introduction  to  Moses,  did  I  not  use  as  apt  a 
figure  as  your  critics  who  talk  of  the  color  of  such 
and  such  a  writer?  Do  you  not  recognize  the  nerv- 
ous style,  the  animated  style,  the  colorless  style,  the 
highly-colored  style?  Art  paints  with  words,  with 
sounds,  with  colors,  with  lines,  with  forms;  though 
its  methods  are  various,  its  effects  are  the  same. 
An  Italian  architect  may  arouse  in  us  the  same  sen- 
sation that  is  aroused  by  the  introduction  to  Moses, 
by  leading  us  through  dark,  damp  avenues  lined  by 


2IO  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

tall,  dense  trees,  and  bringing  us  suddenly  face  to 
face  with  a  valley  full  of  streams  and  flowers  and 
factories,  and  bathed  in  sunlight.  In  their  most 
imposing  efforts,  the  arts  are  simply  the  expression 
of  the  great  spectacles  of  nature.  I  am  not  learned 
enough  to  enter  into  the  philosophy  of  music;  go  and 
question  Capraja,  you  will  be  surprised  at  what  he 
will  tell  you.  According  to  him,  each  instrument, 
having  the  endurance,  the  breath,  or  the  hand  of 
man  to. give  it  its  full  expression,  is  as  superior  as 
language  to  color,  which  is  invariable,  and  to  speech, 
which  has  limits.  The  language  of  music  is  infinite, 
it  contains  everything  and  can  express  everything. 
Now  do  you  know  wherein  consists  the  superiority 
of  the  work  you  have  heard?  I  will  explain  it  to 
you  in  a  few  words.  There  are  two  kinds  of  music: 
one  paltry,  pitiful,  second-rate,  always  the  same, 
based  upon  a  bare  hundred  phrases  which  every 
musician  appropriates  to  himself,  and  constituting 
a  sort  of  chatter  more  or  less  agreeable,  upon  which 
the  majority  of  composers  subsist;  we  listen  to  their 
songs,  their  so-called  melodies,  we  derive  more  or 
less  pleasure  from  them,  but  we  retain  absolutely 
nothing  of  them  in  our  memory;  a  hundred  years 
pass  and  they  are  forgotten.  The  nations,  from 
the  earliest  antiquity  down  to  our  own  day,  have 
preserved,  as  a  precious  treasure,  certain  songs 
which  epitomize  their  manners  and  customs,  I  may 
almost  say  their  history.  Listen  to  one  of  these 
national  hymns, — the  Gregorian  Chant  was  the 
heir  of  the  earlier  peoples  in  respect  to  this  form  of 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  211 

composition, — and  you  fall  into  profound  reveries, 
vast,  incredible  images  succeed  one  another  in  your 
mind,  despite  the  simplicity  of  these  rudimentary 
works,  these  musical  ruins.  There  are  one  or  two  men 
of  genius,  not  more,  in  each  century,  the  Homers  of 
music,  to  whom  God  gives  the  power  to  anticipate 
the  future,  and  who  construct  these  melodies  over- 
flowing with  things  done,  pregnant  with  stupendous 
poems.  Reflect  hereon,  and  remember  this  thought; 
it  will  bear  fruit  when  repeated  by  you:  it  is  melody, 
not  harmony,  which  has  the  power  of  surviving 
through  the  ages.  The  music  of  this  oratorio  con- 
tains a  multitude  of  these  grand  and  sacred  things. 
A  work  which  begins  with  such  an  introduction  and 
ends  with  this  prayer  is  immortal,  as  truly  as  the 
O  filii  etfilice  of  Easter,  as  the  Dies  irce  of  Death,  as 
all  the  hymns  which,  in  all  countries,  outlive  splen- 
dor, joy,  and  prosperity." 

Two  tears  which  the  duchess  wiped  away  as  she 
left  the  box,  said  plainly  enough  that  she  was  think- 
ing of  Venice,  and  Vendramin  kissed  her  hand. 


The  performance  ended  with  a  concert  of  the  most 
original  maledictions,  with  a  storm  of  hisses  for 
Genovese  and  a  paroxysm  of  wild  excitement  in 
favor  of  La  Tinti.  Not  for  years  had  the  Venetians 
witnessed  a  scene  of  greater  animation;  their  exist- 
ence was  enlivened  at  last  by  the  antagonism  which 
is  never  lacking  in  Italy,  where  the  smallest  town  is 
always  kept  alive  by  the  opposing  interests  of  two 
factions:  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines  everywhere,  the 
families  of  Capulet  and  Montague  at  Verona,  of  Gere- 
me'i  and  Lomelli  at  Bologna,  of  Fieschi  and  Doria  at 
Genoa,  the  patricians  and  the  plebs,  the  senate  and 
the  tribunes  of  the  Roman  republic,  the  houses  of 
Pazzi  and  Medici  at  Florence,  of  Sforza  and  Visconti  at 
Milan,  of  Orsini  and  Colonna  at  Rome, — in  a  word, 
at  all  times  and  in  all  places  the  same  tendency. 
Already  there  were  Genovesists  and  Tintists  in  the 
streets.  The  prince  attended  the  duchess,  who  was 
more  than  saddened  by  Osiris's  unhappy  love;  she 
had  a  foreboding  of  some  similar  catastrophe  to  her- 
self, and  could  only  strain  Emilio  to  her  heart,  as  if 
to  keep  him  with  her. 

"Remember  your  promise,"  said  Vendramin;  "I 
will  wait  for  you  on  the  square." 

Vendramin  took  the  Frenchman's  arm  and  sug- 
gested that  they  walk  on  the  square  of  Saint  Mark 
while  awaiting  the  prince. 

(213) 


214  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

"  I  shall  be  overjoyed  if  he  does  not  come,"  he 
said. 

That  remark  was  the  starting-point  of  a  conver- 
sation between  the  Frenchman  and  Vendramin;  the 
latter  thought  at  that  moment  that  it  would  be  ad- 
visable to  consult  a  physician,  and  he  described 
Emilio's  strange  predicament.  The  Frenchman  did 
what  Frenchmen  do  on  all  occasions,  he  began  to 
laugh.  Vendramin,  who  considered  it  an  exceed- 
ingly serious  matter,  lost  his  temper;  but  his  wrath 
was  appeased  when  the  pupil  of  Magendie,  Cuvier, 
Dupuytren,  and  Broussais  told  him  that  he  believed 
that  he  could  cure  the  prince  of  his  excessive  happi- 
ness, and  dissipate  the  divine  poesy  with  which  he 
surrounded  the  duchess  as  with  a  cloud. 

"  Fortunate  misfortune!"  he  exclaimed.  "  The  an- 
cients, who  were  not  such  fools  as  their  glass  sky 
and  their  ideas  in  physics  would  lead  us  to  suppose, 
intended  to  describe  in  their  fable  of  Ixion  this  power 
which  nullifies  the  body  and  makes  the  mind  supreme 
in  everything." 

At  that  moment,  they  saw  Genovese  approach- 
ing, accompanied  by  the  imaginative  Capraja.  The 
musical  fanatic  was  intensely  anxious  to  know  the 
real  cause  of  the  fiasco.  The  tenor,  when  the  ques- 
tion was  put  to  him,  talked  wildly,  like  those  men 
who  are  made  drunk  by  the  violence  of  the  ideas 
which  a  passion  suggests  to  them. 

"  Yes,  signor,  I  love  her,  I  adore  her  with  a  frenzy 
of  which  I  deemed  myself  no  longer  capable  after 
wearing  myself  out  with  women.  Women  injure 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  215 

art  too  much  for  a  man  to  indulge  in  dissipation  and 
work  at  the  same  time.  Clara  thinks  that  I  am 
jealous  of  her  success,  and  that  I  wished  to  prevent 
her  triumph  at  Venice;  but  I  applauded  her  in  the 
wings,  and  I  shouted  Diva  !  louder  than  the  whole 
audience." 

"  But,"  said  Cataneo,  coming  up  at  that  moment, 
"  that  doesn't  explain  how  you  were  transformed 
from  a  divine  singer  into  the  most  execrable  of  all 
the  wretches  who  emit  air  through  their  windpipes 
without  imparting  to  it  the  enchanting  sweetness 
which  delights  our  hearts." 

"I  a  poor  singer,"  exclaimed  the  virtuoso,  "I, 
who  am  the  peer  of  the  greatest  masters!" 

The  group,  consisting  of  the  French  physician, 
Vendramin,  Capraja,  Cataneo,  and  Genovese,  had 
walked  as  far  as  the  Piazzetta.  It  was  midnight. 
The  glistening  bay,  outlined  by  the  churches  of 
Saint  George  and  Saint  Paul,  at  the  end  of  the 
Giudecca,  and  by  the  beginning  of  the  Grand  Canal, 
so  mysteriously  opened  by  the  dogana,  and  by  the 
church  dedicated  to  Maria  della  Salute — that  mag- 
nificent bay  was  perfectly  calm.  The  moon  illumi- 
nated the  vessels  by  the  bank  of  the  Esclavons.  The 
gulf  of  Venice,  which  is  subjected  to  none  of  the 
agitation  of  the  sea,  seemed  alive,  the  myriad  reflec- 
tions on  its  surface  sparkled  so  merrily.  Never  did 
singer  stand  upon  a  more  magnificent  stage.  Geno- 
vese invoked  the  attention  of  sea  and  sky  by  an 
emphatic  gesture;  then,  with  no  other  accompani- 
ment than  the  murmuring  of  the  waves,  he  sang  the 


2l6  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

air  Ombra  adorata,  Crescentini's  masterpiece.  That 
air,  floating  upward  between  the  statues  of  Saint 
Theodore  and  Saint  George,  in  the  heart  of  deserted, 
moonlit  Venice;  the  words,  so  perfectly  in  harmony 
with  the  scene;  and  Genovese's  melancholy  expres- 
sion— all  combined  to  vanquish  Frenchmen  and  Ital- 
ians alike.  At  the  first  notes,  Vendramin's  face  was 
bathed  with  great  tears.  Capraja  was  as  motionless 
as  one  of  the  statues  in  the  ducal  palace.  Cataneo 
seemed  to  feel  a  thrill  of  emotion.  The  Frenchman, 
taken  by  surprise,  reflected  like  a  scholar  impressed 
by  a  phenomenon  which  shatters  one  of  his  funda- 
mental axioms.  These  four  minds,  who  differed  so 
widely,  whose  hopes  were  so  meagre,  who  believed 
in  nothing  for  themselves  or  after  themselves,  but 
who  admitted  for  their  own  satisfaction  that  they 
were  ephemeral  and  capricious  forms,  like  a  blade 
of  grass  or  an  insect,  caught  a  glimpse  of  heaven. 
Never  did  music  better  deserve  the  epithet  divine. 
The  comforting  sounds  that  issued  from  that  throat 
surrounded  their  hearts  with  soft,  caressing  clouds. 
These  clouds,  half  visible  like  the  marble  roofs 
around  them  silvered  by  the  moon,  seemed  to  serve 
as  seats  for  angels  whose  wings  expressed  adoration 
and  love  by  a  devout  movement.  The  simple,  art- 
less melody,  penetrating  the  inward  senses,  carried 
light  thither.  How  sanctified  was  passion!  But 
what  a  pitiful  awakening  the  tenor's  vanity  had  in 
store  for  these  noble  emotions! 

"Am  I  a  poor  singer?"  said  Genovese,  after  he 
had  finished  the  air. 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  217 

One  and  all  regretted  that  the  instrument  was  not 
a  celestial  thing.  Was  that  angelic  music  attributa- 
ble solely  to  a  feeling  of  wounded  self-esteem?  The 
singer  felt  nothing,  he  was  no  more  thinking  of  the 
religious  sentiments,  the  divine  images  which  he 
created  in  their  hearts,  than  the  violin  knows  what 
Paganini  makes  it  say.  They  had  all  fancied  that 
they  saw  Venice  raising  her  shroud  and  singing  her- 
self, yet  it  was  simply  a  matter  of  a  tenor's  fiasco! 

"  Can  you  divine  the  meaning  of  such  a  phenom- 
enon?" the  physician  asked  Capraja,  wishing  to 
induce  the  man  to  talk  whom  the  duchess  had  de- 
scribed as  a  profound  thinker. 

"What  phenomenon?"  said  Capraja. 

"That  Genovese,  who  is  so  fine  when  La  Tinti  is 
not  on  the  stage,  changes  into  a  braying  ass  in  her 
presence." 

"  He  acts  in  obedience  to  a  secret  law,  the  math- 
ematical demonstration  of  which  one  of  your  chem- 
ists can  give,  perhaps,  and  which  the  next  century 
will  find  stated  in  a  formula  full  of  X  and  A  and  B, 
mingled  with  little  algebraic  symbols,  signs,  and 
lines  which  give  me  the  colic,  for  the  greatest  dis- 
coveries in  mathematics  do  not  add  materially  to  the 
sum  total  of  our  enjoyment.  When  an  artist  is  so 
unfortunate  as  to  be  full  to  overflowing  of  the  pas- 
sion he  seeks  to  express,  he  is  unable  to  express  it, 
for  it  is  the  thing  itself  instead  of  its  image.  Art 
proceeds  from  the  brain,  not  from  the  heart.  When 
your  subject  dominates  you,  you  are  its  slave,  not 
its  master.  You  are  like  a  king  besieged  by  his 


21$  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

people.  To  feel  too  keenly  at  the  moment  when  it 
is  time  to  act,  is  the  revolt  of  the  feelings  against 
the  faculty!" 

"Would  it  not  be  well  for  us  to  convince  our- 
selves of  this  by  another  experiment?"  queried  the 
physician. 

"  Cataneo,  you  can  bring  your  tenor  and  your 
prima-donna  together,"  said  Capraja  to  his  friend. 

"Come  to  sup  with  me,  gentlemen,"  said  the 
duke.  "We  must  reconcile  Clarina  and  the  tenor. 
Otherwise  the  season  in  Venice  will  be  wasted." 

The  offer  was  accepted. 

"Gondoliers!"  cried  Cataneo. 

"One  moment,"  Vendramin  said  to  the  duke; 
"Memmi  is  waiting  for  me  at  the  Florian;  I  don't 
want  to  leave  him  alone.  Let  us  make  him  tipsy 
to-night,  or  he  will  kill  himself  to-morrow." 

"Corpo  santo!"  cried  the  duke,  "  I  desire  to  pre- 
serve that  excellent  young  man  for  the  happiness 
and  future  welfare  of  my  family.  I  will  invite  him." 

They  all  repaired  to  the  Florian,  where  the  crowd 
of  habitues  was  engaged  in  stormy  and  excited  dis- 
cussion, which  ceased  at  sight  of  the  tenor.  In  a 
corner,  near  one  of  the  windows  looking  on  the 
square,  stood  the  prince,  with  a  gloomy  counte- 
nance, eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  motionless  as  a  statue, 
— a  ghastly  image  of  despair. 

"That  madman,"  said  the  doctor  to  Vendramin, 
"  doesn't  know  what  he  wants!  There  is  in  the 
world  one  man  who  can  separate  a  Massimilla  Doni 
from  the  rest  of  creation,  possessing  her  in  heaven, 


MASSIMILLA    DONI  2 IQ 

amid  the  imaginary  splendor  which  no  power  on 
earth  can  realize.  He  can  see  his  mistress  always 
sublime  and  pure,  he  can  always  hear  within  him- 
self what  we  have  just  listened  to  by  the  seashore, 
he  can  live  always  under  the  fire  of  two  eyes  which 
create  about  him  the  warm,  golden  atmosphere 
with  which  Titian  has  surrounded  the  Virgin  in  his 
Assumption,  and  which  Raphael  first  invented  by 
favor  of  some  revelation,  for  his  Transfiguration  of 
Christ;  and  this  man  aspires  simply  to  besmirch  this 
poesy!  Through  my  ministrations,  he  will  combine 
his  carnal  love  and  his  celestial  love  in  that  one 
woman!  In  fact,  he  will  do  like  the  rest  of  us,  he 
will  have  a  mistress.  The  poor  fellow  possessed  a 
divinity;  he  wishes  to  make  a  woman  of  her!  I  tell 
you,  monsieur,  he  will  renounce  Heaven,  and  1  will 
not  promise  that  he  may  not  die  of  despair  later. 
O  ye  female  faces,  gracefully  outlined  by  a  pure 
and  luminous  oval,  who  recall  the  creations  wherein 
art  has  contended  victoriously  with  nature!  ye  divine 
feet  which  cannot  walk,  slender  waists  which  an 
earthly  breeze  would  break,  willowy  forms  which 
will  never  conceive;  ye  virgins  dimly  seen  by  us  as 
we  emerge  from  childhood,  admired  in  secret,  adored 
without  hope,  enveloped  in  the  beams  of  some  un- 
wearying desire,  ye  whom  we  never  see  again  but 
whose  smile  pervades  our  whole  existence — what 
Epicurean  swine  ever  sought  to  plunge  you  into 
earthly  mire!  Ah!  monsieur,  the  sun  shines  and 
gives  warmth  on  earth  only  because  it  is  thirty- 
three  million  leagues  away;  go  toward  it  and  science 


220  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

warns  you  that  it  is  neither  warm  nor  luminous; 
for  science  is  of  some  use,"  he  added,  glancing  at 
Capraja. 

"Not  bad  for  a  French  doctor!"  said  Capraja, 
tapping  the  foreigner's  shoulder  lightly.  "  You  have 
just  explained  what  Europe  understands  least  in 
Dante,  his  Bice!  Yes,  Beatrice,  that  ideal  figure, 
the  queen  of  the  poet's  fancies,  chosen  from  the 
whole  world,  consecrated  by  tears,  deified  by  mem- 
ory, constantly  rejuvenated  by  ungratified  desires!" 

"Prince,"  said  the  duke  in  Emilio's  ear,  "come 
to  sup  with  me.  When  you  rob  a  poor  Neapolitan 
of  his  wife  and  his  mistress,  you  can  refuse  him 
nothing." 

This  Neapolitan  buffoonery,  uttered  with  aristo- 
cratic courtesy,  extorted  a  smile  from  Emilio,  who 
suffered  himself  to  be  taken  by  the  arm  and  led 
away.  The  duke  had  begun  by  sending  one  of  the 
waiters  from  the  cafe  to  his  house.  As  the  Memmi 
palace  was  on  the  Grand  Canal,  in  the  direction  of 
Santa  Maria  della  Salute,  it  was  necessary  either  to 
walk  around  by  the  Rialto,  or  to  go  in  gondolas;  but 
the  party  did  not  wish  to  separate,  and  they  all 
preferred  to  walk  through  Venice.  The  duke's  in- 
firmities, however,  compelled  him  to  make  use  of 
his  gondola. 

Whoever  had  passed  the  Memmi  palace  about  two 
in  the  morning  would  have  seen  it  vomiting  light 
upon  the  Grand  Canal  through  all  its  windows,  and 
would  have  heard  the  beautiful  overture  to  Semi- 
ramide  performed  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  by  the 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  221 

orchestra  from  La  Fenice,  which  was  serenading  La 
Tinti.  The  guests  were  at  table  in  the  gallery  on 
the  second  floor.  Standing  on  the  balcony,  La  Tinti 
sang,  by  way  of  thanks,  Almaviva's  Buona  Sera, 
while  the  duke's  steward  distributed  his  master's 
largess  among  the  poor  artistes,  and  invited  them  to 
dinner  on  the  following  day;  courtesies  obligatory 
upon  great  noblemen  who  protect  songstresses,  and 
great  ladies  who  protect  singers.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances, one  must  marry  the  whole  theatre.  Ca- 
taneo  did  things  handsomely,  he  was  the  manager's 
croupier,  and  that  season  cost  him  two  thousand 
crowns.  He  had  brought  furniture  of  a  palatial  style, 
had  sent  for  a  French  cook,  and  wines  of  all  coun- 
tries. You  can  believe,  therefore,  that  the  supper 
was  a  royal  feast. 

Seated  beside  La  Tinti,  the  prince  felt  keenly, 
throughout  the  supper,  what  poets  call  in  all  lan- 
guages the  darts  of  love.  The  image  of  the  sub- 
lime Massimilla  grew  dim,  as  the  idea  of  God  is 
sometimes  overshadowed  by  clouds  of  doubt  in  the 
minds  of  solitary  scholars.  La  Tinti  deemed  herself 
the  most  fortunate  woman  on  earth,  seeing  that 
Emilio  loved  her;  as  she  was  sure  of  possessing 
him,  she  was  all  aflame  with  a  joy  which  was  re- 
flected on  her  face;  her  beauty  was  so  resplendent 
that  each  guest,  as  he  emptied  his  glass,  could  not 
refrain  from  offering  her  a  salute  of  admiration. 

''The  duchess  is  not  La  Tinti's  equal,"  said  the 
physician,  forgetting  his  theory  beneath  the  fire  of 
the  Sicilian's  eyes. 


222  MASSIMILLA    DONI 

The  tenor  ate  and  drank  slowly;  he  seemed  de- 
sirous to  identify  himself  with  the  prima-donna's 
life,  and  lost  that  gross  sense  of  pleasure  which 
distinguishes  Italian  singers. 

"  Come,  signorina,"  said  the  duke,  with  a  glance 
of  entreaty  at  La  Tinti,  "  and  you,  caro  primo  uomo," 
he  said  to  Genovese,  "  blend  your  voices  in  a  perfect 
accord.  Sing  the  C  in  Qual  portento,  at  the  coming  of 
the  light  in  the  oratorio,  to  convince  my  old  friend  Ca- 
praja  of  the  superiority  of  the  accord  to  the  roulade!" 

"  I  propose  to  triumph  over  this  prince  whom  she 
loves,"  said  Genovese  to  himself;  "for  she  adores 
him,  you  can  see  it  in  her  eyes!" 

Imagine  the  surprise  of  the  guests  who  had  listened 
to  Genovese  by  the  seashore,  when  they  heard  him 
bray,  coo,  mew,  snarl,  gurgle,  bellow,  thunder,  bark, 
yell,  and  even  produce  sounds  which  can  be  described 
only  as  a  dull  rattle, — in  short,  play  an  incompre- 
hensible comedy  while  presenting  to  their  aston- 
ished eyes  an  exalted  and  sublime  expression  like 
those  of  the  martyrs  painted  by  Zurbaran,  Murillo, 
Titian,  and  Raphael.  The  laugh  that  escaped  from 
each  one  changed  into  almost  tragic  seriousness  the 
moment  they  realized  that  Genovese  was  acting  in 
good  faith.  La  Tinti  seemed  to  understand  that  the 
tenor  loved  her,  and  that  he  had  told  the  truth  on  the 
stage,  the  home  of  falsehood. 

"Poverino!"  she  murmured,  patting  the  prince's 
hand  under  the  table. 

"Per  Dio  Santo!"  cried  Capraja,  "will  you  tell 
me  what  score  you  are  reading  at  this  moment,  you 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  223 

murderer  of  Rossini !  In  God's  name,  tell  us  what 
is  happening  inside  of  you,  what  devil  is  fighting  in 
your  windpipe?" 

"The  devil!"  replied  Genovese;  "say,  rather, 
the  god  of  music.  My  eyes,  like  Saint  Cecilia's,  see 
angels  who  motion  to  me  to  follow  one  by  one  the 
notes  of  the  score,  written  in  characters  of  fire,  and 
I  try  to  struggle  with  them.  Per  Dio!  do  you  not 
understand  me?  the  passion  which  inspired  me  has 
permeated  my  whole  being,  my  heart  and  my  lungs. 
My  heart  and  my  throat  make  but  one  breath.  Have 
you  never,  in  a  dream,  listened  to  sublime  music, 
thoughts  of  unknown  composers  who  employ  the 
pure  sound  which  nature  has  implanted  in  every- 
thing, and  which  we  awaken  with  more  or  less 
success  by  the  instruments  with  which  we  compose 
elaborate  pieces;  but  which,  in  those  supernatural 
concerts,  stands  forth  free  from  the  imperfections 
with  which,  human  performers  mar  its  beauty,  for 
they  cannot  be  all  sentiment,  all  soul? — very  good; 
I  produce  these  marvellous  sounds  for  you,  and  you 
curse  me!  You  are  as  mad  as  the  pit  of  La  Fenice, 
which  hissed  me.  I  despised  that  vulgar  crowd  for 
not  ascending  with  me  the  lofty  peak  from  which 
one  can  wield  dominion  over  art,  and  it  is  only  for 
noteworthy  men,  a  Frenchman —  Ah!  he  has  gone!" 

"  Half  an  hour  ago,"  said  Vendramin. 

"So  much  the  worse!  perhaps  he  would  have 
understood  me,  since  you  dignified  Italians,  enamored 
of  art,  do  not  understand  me." 

"There,  there,  there!"  said  Capraja,  patting  the 


224  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

tenor's  head,  with  a  smile,  "gallop  away  on  the 
divine  Ariosto's  hippogriff;  run  after  your  brilliant 
chimeras,  you  musical  teriaki!" 

In  truth,  the  guests,  being  convinced  that  Geno- 
vese  was  tipsy,  let  him  talk  on  without  listening  to 
him.  Capraja  alone  understood  the  question  pro- 
pounded by  the  Frenchman. 

While  the  wine  of  Cyprus  unloosed  every  tongue 
and  each  guest  pranced  about  on  his  favorite  hobby, 
the  physician  awaited  the  duchess  in  a  gondola,  after 
sending  in  to  her  a  note  written  by  Vendramin. 
Massimilla  hastened  down  in  her  night-clothes,  so 
alarmed  was  she  by  the  prince's  adieus,  and  sur- 
prised by  the  hopes  held  out  by  this  letter. 

"Madame,"  said  the  physician,  motioning  to  her 
to  be  seated  and  to  the  gondoliers  to  start,  "  Emilio 
Memmi's  life  hangs  in  the  balance  at  this  moment, 
and  you  alone  can  save  it." 

"  What  must  I  do?"  she  asked. 

"Ah!  will  you  resign  yourself  to  play  an  infamous 
part,  notwithstanding  the  noblest  face  that  one  can 
find  in  Italy  to  admire?  Will  you  descend  from  the 
blue  heaven  where  you  now  are  to  a  courtesan's 
bed?  In  a  word,  O  sublime  angel,  O  pure  and 
stainless  beauty,  will  you  consent  to  divine  what 
the  love  of  La  Tinti  is,  beneath  her  roof,  and  in 
such  a  way  as  to  deceive  the  passionate  Emilio, 
whom,  however,  the  fumes  of  wine  will  have  made 
far  from  clear-sighted?" 

"Is  that  all?"  she  said,  smiling,  and  disclosing 
to  the  astonished  Frenchman  a  corner,  hitherto 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  225 

unnoticed  by  him,  of  the  enchanting  character  of  the 
loving  Italian.  "  I  will  surpass  La  Tinti,  if  need  be, 
to  save  my  friend's  life." 

"And  you  will  blend  in  a  single  love  two  loves 
that  are  now  separated  in  him  by  a  mountain  of 
poesy  which  will  melt  like  the  ice  of  a  glacier 
beneath  the  rays  of  the  sun  in  summer." 

"I  shall  be  under  eternal  obligations  to  you," 
said  the  duchess,  gravely. 

When  the  Frenchman  returned  to  the  gallery, 
where  the  debauch  had  assumed  the  character  of 
true  Venetian  madness,  his  face  wore  a  joyous  ex- 
pression, which  escaped  the  prince,  who  was  fasci- 
nated by  La  Tinti,  promising  himself  a  reward  of 
the  intoxicating  bliss  he  had  already  tasted  at  her 
hands.  La  Tinti,  like  a  true  Sicilian,  was  swimming 
in  the  emotions  of  an  amorous  caprice  on  the  point 
of  being  gratified.  The  Frenchman  •  whispered  a 
few  words  in  Vendramin's  ear,  and  La  Tinti  became 
uneasy. 

"What  are  you  plotting?"  she  asked  the  prince's 
friend. 

"Are  you  a  good  girl?"  the  physician  whispered 
to  her,  with  the  stern  air  of  an  operator. 

The  question  entered  the  poor  girl's  understand- 
ing as  a  dagger  enters  the  heart. 

"It  is  a  question  of  saving  Emilio's  life,"  said 
Vendramin. 

"Come,"  said  the  physician  to  the  singer. 

The  poor  creature  rose  and  went  to  the  end  of  the 
table,  between  Vendramin  and  the  physician,  where 
15 


226  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

she  seemed  like  a  criminal  between  her  confessor 
and  the  headsman.  She  struggled  a  long  time,  but 
yielded  at  last  through  love  for  Emilio.  The  phy- 
sician's last  words  were: 

"And  you  will  cure  Genovese!" 

La  Tinti  said  a  word  to  the  tenor  as  she  walked 
around  the  table.  She  returned  to  the  prince,  put 
her  arm  about  his  neck,  kissed  his  hair  with  a  look 
of  despair  which  impressed  Vendramin  and  the 
doctor,  the  only  two  who  had  their  reason;  then  she 
rushed  into  her  bedroom.  Emilio,  seeing  that  Geno- 
vese had  left  the  table,  and  that  Cataneo  was  deep 
in  a  long  musical  discussion  with  Capraja,  stole 
toward  the  door  of  La  Tinti's  bedroom,  raised  the 
portiere,  and  disappeared  like  an  eel  in  the  mud. 

"Well,  Cataneo,"  said  Capraja,  "you  have  de- 
manded of  physical  pleasure  all  that  it  had  to  give, 
and  here  you  are  hanging  to  life  by  a  thread,  like 
a  pasteboard  harlequin,  riddled  with  scars,  and  not 
moving  unless  someone  pulls  the  thread  of  a  perfect 
accord." 

"  But  are  not  you  yourself  in  the  same  state,  Ca- 
praja, you  who  have  demanded  everything  from  the 
fancy,  and  who  live  astride  a  roulade?" 

"Me,  I  possess  the  whole  world!"  said  Capraja, 
putting  forth  his  hand  with  a  kingly  gesture. 

"  And  I  have  devoured  it!"  rejoined  the  duke. 

They  noticed  that  Vendramin  and  the  physician 
had  gone,  and  that  they  were  alone. 

The  next  day,  after  the  most  blissful  of  blissful 
nights,  the  prince's  slumber  was  disturbed  by  a 


MASSIMILLA   DONI  22/ 

dream.  He  felt  upon  his  breast  pearls  dropped  there 
by  an  angel;  he  awoke  to  find  himself  bathed  by  the 
tears  of  Massimilla  Doni,  in  whose  arms  he  lay,  and 
who  was  watching  him  while  he  slept. 

That  evening  at  La  Fenice,  Genovese,  although 
his  comrade  La  Tinti  had  not  allowed  him  to  rise 
until  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, — which,  they 
say,  injures  a  tenor  voice, — sang  his  role  in  Semi- 
ramide  divinely;  he  was  recalled  with  La  Tinti,  more 
wreaths  were  presented,  the  pit  was  drunk  with  joy, 
the  tenor  no  longer  sought  to  fascinate  the  prima- 
donna  by  the  charms  of  an  angelic  method. 

Vendramin  was  the  only  one  whom  the  physician 
could  not  cure.  Love  of  a  country  which  has  ceased 
to  exist  is  an  incurable  passion.  The  young  Vene- 
tian, by  dint  of  living  in  his  thirteenth-century  Re- 
public, of  lying  with  the  noble  courtesan  brought  to 
him  by  opium,  and  of  returning  to  real  life  as  a  con- 
sequence of  physical  prostration,  succumbed  at  last, 
mourned  and  cherished  by  his  friends. 

How  shall  we  tell  the  climax  of  this  adventure, 
for  it  was  shockingly  commonplace?  One  word  will 
suffice  for  worshippers  of  the  ideal. 

The  duchess  was  enceinte. 

The  peris,  nymphs,  fairies,  sylphs  of  the  olden 
time,  the  Muses  of  Greece,  the  marble  Virgins  of 
Certosa  of  Pavia,  the  Day  and  Night  of  Michael 
Angelo,  the  little  Angels  that  Bellini  first  drew  at 
the  foot  of  church  paintings,  and  to  whom  Raphael 
gave  such  divine  form  at  the  foot  of  the  Virgin  an 
donataire,  and  of  the  Madonna  freezing  at  Dresden, 


228  MASSIMILLA   DONI 

Orcagna's  captivating  maidens  in  the  church  of  San- 
Michele  at  Florence,  the  heavenly  choirs  on  the  tomb 
of  Saint  Sebald  at  Nuremberg,  several  Virgins  in 
the  Duomo  at  Milan,  the  hordes  of  a  hundred  Gothic 
cathedrals,  the  whole  nation  of  figures  who  ruin 
their  shapes  to  come  to  you,  O  all-embracing  artists 
— all  these  angelic  incorporeal  maidens  rushed  to 
Massimilla's  bed  and  wept  there. 

Paris,  May  25,  1839. 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 


TO  MADAME  LA  BARONNE  JAMES  DE  ROTHSCHILD 


I 

HOW   THE   MOTHER   LIVED 

* 

On  a  winter's  night,  about  two  o'clock,  Comtesse 
Jeanne  d'Herouville  was  seized  with  such  sharp 
pains  that,  despite  her  inexperience,  she  felt  certain 
that  her  confinement  was  close  at  hand;  and  the  in- 
stinct which  impels  us  to  seek  greater  comfort  in  a 
change  of  posture  led  her  to  sit  up  in  bed,  either  to 
study  the  nature  of  the  unfamiliar  pains,  or  to  reflect 
upon  her  situation.  She  was  assailed  by  cruel  ap- 
prehensions, caused  not  so  much  by  the  perils  of  a 
first  confinement,  at  which  most  women  take  fright, 
as  by  the  perils  which  awaited  the  child.  To  avoid 
waking  her  husband,  who  was  lying  by  her  side,  the 
poor  woman  took  precautions  which,  owing  to  her 
profound  terror,  were  as  minute  as  those  of  a  pris- 
oner attempting  to  escape.  But  though  the  pains 
became  more  and  more  intense,  she  ceased  to  feel 
them,  her  faculties  were  so  entirely  absorbed  by  the 
difficult  task  of  resting  her  moist  hands  on  the  pillow 
in  order  to  relieve  her  suffering  body  from  a  posi- 
tion in  which  she  seemed  utterly  helpless.  At  the 
slightest  rustling  of  the  vast  green  silk  counterpane, 
beneath  which  she  had  passed  many  a  sleepless  night 
since  her  marriage,  she  stopped  abruptly,  as  if  she 
(233) 


234  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

had  touched  a  bell.  Being  compelled  to  watch  her 
husband,  she  divided  her  attention  between  the 
screaking  silk  and  a  broad,  swarthy  face  whose  long 
moustache  brushed  her  shoulder.  If  her  husband's 
lips  emitted  an  overloud  breath,  it  aroused  a  sudden 
fear  which  heightened  the  brilliancy  of  the  flush 
with  which  her  twofold  anguish  overspread  her 
cheeks.  The  criminal  who  has  crept  to  the  door  of 
his  cell  at  dead  of  night,  and  tries  to  turn  noiselessly 
in  a  pitiless  lock  the  key  that  he  has  found,  displays 
the  same  trembling  boldness.  When  the  countess 
at  last  attained  a  sitting  posture  without  awakening 
her  lord  and  master,  she  indulged  in  a  gesture  of 
childish  joy  which  revealed  the  touching  ingenuous- 
ness of  her  character;  but  the  smile  half  formed  upon 
her  burning  lips  quickly  vanished;  a  thought  dark- 
ened her  pure  brow,  and  her  long  blue  eyes  resumed 
their  sad  expression.  She  uttered  a  sigh,  and  re- 
placed her  hands,  not  without  careful  precautions, 
on  the  fateful  conjugal  pillow.  Then,  as  if  she  were 
free  to  think  and  act  for  the  first  time  since  her  mar- 
riage, she  glanced  at  the  objects  about  her,  extend- 
ing her  neck  with  a  quick  movement  like  that  of  a 
bird  in  its  cage.  Seeing  her  thus,  one  could  readily 
divine  that  she  had  formerly  been  all  joy  and  heed- 
less vivacity,  but  that  destiny  had  suddenly  mown 
down  her  early  hopes,  and  changed  her  artless 
gayety  to  melancholy. 

The  room  was  one  of  those  which,  even  in  our 
day,  octogenarian  concierges  exhibit  to  travellers 
who  visit  old  chateaus,  with:  "This  is  the  State 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  235 

bedroom  in  which  Louis  XIII.  lay."  Beautiful  tapes- 
tries, generally  dark  in  tone,  were  framed  in  broad 
walnut  borders,  the  delicate  carving  of  which  was 
blackened  by  time.  The  timbers  of  the  ceiling 
formed  panels  decorated  with  arabesques  in  the 
style  of  the  preceding  century,  and  still  retaining 
the  natural  coloring  of  the  chestnut.  This  decora- 
tion, in  which  dark  tones  predominated,  reflected  the 
light  so  poorly  that  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  its 
design,  although  the  sun  shone  brightly  into  the 
lofty  and  spacious  room.  In  like  manner,  the  silver 
lamp  standing  on  the  mantel-shelf  of  an  enormous 
fireplace  cast  such  a  feeble  light  that  its  flickering 
gleam  might  be  compared  to  the  hazy  stars  which 
at  times  pierce  the  grayish  veil  of  an  autumn  night. 
The  figures  carved  upon  the  marble  face  of  the 
mantel,  which  was  opposite  the  countess's  bed,  pre- 
sented such  a  hideously  grotesque  aspect  that  she 
dared  not  let  her  eyes  rest  upon  them;  she  feared 
that  she  should  see  them  move,  or  hear  an  outburst 
of  laughter  from  their  yawning,  distorted  mouths. 

At  the  moment,  a  fierce  storm  was  howling  in  the 
chimney,  which  repeated  its  every  gust,  imparting 
to  it  a  doleful  meaning,  and  the  size  of  the  flue  so 
facilitated  the  communication  between  the  hearth 
and  the  outer  air  that  the  burning  logs  seemed  to 
have  a  sort  of  respiration,  they  blazed  up  and  went 
out  again  and  again  at  the  bidding  of  the  wind.  The 
crest  of  the  D'Herouville  family,  carved  in  white 
marble,  with  all  its  mantles  and  the  figures  of  its 
supporters,  gave  the  aspect  of  a  tomb  to  this  species 


236  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

of  edifice,  which  formed  a  fit  companion  to  the  bed, 
another  monument  reared  to  the  glory  of  Hymen.  A 
modern  architect  would  have  been  sorely  puzzled  to 
determine  whether  the  bed  had  been  made  for  the 
room,  or  the  room  for  the  bed.  Two  Cupids,  sporting 
upon  a  canopy  of  walnut  carved  to  represent  garlands 
of  flowers,  might  have  passed  for  angels,  and  the  col- 
umns of  the  same  wood,  which  supported  this  dome, 
presented  mythological  allegories,  the  explanation  of 
which  could  be  found  in  the  Bible  or  in  Ovid's  Meta- 
morphoses. Take  away  the  bed,  and  the  canopy 
would  have  been  equally  appropriate  over  the  pulpit 
or  the  church-wardens'  pew  in  a  church.  The  hus- 
band and  wife  mounted  three  steps  to  enter  this 
sumptuous  couch,  which  was  surrounded  by  a  plat- 
form and  supplied  with  curtains  of  green  silk  with 
enormous  designs  in  brilliant  colors,  called  ramages, 
perhaps  because  the  birds  they  represent  are  supposed 
to  sing.*  The  folds  of  these  great  curtains  were  so 
stiff  that  at  night  one  would  have  mistaken  the  silk 
for  a  sheet  of  metal.  To  the  green  velvet,  adorned 
with  gold  fringe,  which  formed  the  head-board  of 
this  seignorial  bed,  the  superstition  of  the  D'Herou- 
villes  had  attached  a  large  crucifix,  upon  which  their 
chaplain  placed  a  fresh  piece  of  boxwood  on  Palm 
Sunday,  when  he  renewed  the  holy  water  in  the 
carved  basin  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 

On  one  side  of  the  fireplace  was  a  wardrobe  of 
rare  wood,  magnificently  carved,  which  the  young 

*Ramage,  In  addition  to  the  meaning  of  flowered  or  leaf  work,  means  the 
song  or  twitter  of  birds. 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  237 

couple  received  in  the  provinces  on  their  wedding- 
day.  These  old  wardrobes,  so  highly  prized  by  the 
antiquarians  of  to-day,  were  the  arsenals  from  which 
the  ladies  produced  the  treasures  of  their  rich  and 
elegant  costumes:  they  contained  laces,  skirts,  col- 
lars, valuable  dresses,  purses,  masks,  gloves,  veils, 
all  the  inventions  of  sixteenth-century  coquetry. 
On  the  other  side,  for  symmetry's  sake,  stood  a 
similar  piece  of  furniture,  in  which  the  countess 
kept  her  books,  her  papers,  and  her  jewels.  An- 
tique damask-covered  easy-chairs,  a  large  greenish 
mirror  made  at  Venice  and  richly  framed  in  a  sort 
of  portable  toilet-stand,  completed  the  furniture  of 
the  bedroom.  The  floor  was  covered  with  a  Persian 
carpet,  whose  magnificence  attested  the  count's  gal- 
lantry. On  the  uppermost  of  the  steps  leading  to 
the  bed  was  a  small  table  upon  which  the  maid, 
every  evening,  served  in  a  cup  of  gold  or  silver  a 
beverage  prepared  with  spices. 

When  we  have  taken  a  few  steps  in  life,  we  rec- 
ognize the  secret  influence  exerted  by  localities 
upon  the  disposition  of  the  mind.  In  whose  ex- 
perience have  there  not  been  evil  moments  when 
some  pledges  of  hope  were  discernible  in  surround- 
ing objects?  Happy  or  wretched,  man  imparts  a 
physiognomy  to  the  most  trivial  objects  with  which 
he  lives;  he  listens  to  them  and  consults  them,  so 
superstitious  is  he  by  nature.  At  this  moment,  the 
countess  looked  about  at  all  the  pieces  of  fur- 
niture as  if  they  were  living  beings;  she  seemed 
to  be  appealing  to  them  for  help  or  protection; 


238  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

but  all  that  gloomy  magnificence  seemed  to  her 
inexorable. 

Suddenly  the  storm  redoubled  its  force.  The 
young  woman  dared  look  upon  nothing  as  of  favor- 
able augury  when  she  heard  the  threatening  voice  of 
the  heavens,  whose  changes,  in  that  age  of  credulity, 
were  interpreted  to  suit  the  ideas  or  habits  of  each 
person's  mind.  She  suddenly  turned  her  eyes  upon 
two  ogive  windows  at  the  end  of  the  room;  but  the 
small  size  of  the  panes  and  the  multiplicity  of  leaden 
divisions  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  see  the  condi- 
tion of  the  sky  and  to  determine  whether  the  end  of 
the  world  was  at  hand,  as  some  monks,  hungry  for 
gifts,  asserted.  She  might  readily  have  given  credit 
to  these  predictions,  for  the  roar  of  the  angry  sea, 
whose  waves  assailed  the  walls  of  the  chateau, 
swelled  the  loud  voice  of  the  tempest,  and  the  very 
cliffs  seemed  to  tremble.  Although  the  pains  grew 
constantly  more  intense  and  excruciating,  the  count- 
ess dared  not  arouse  her  husband;  but  she  scrutin- 
ized his  features,  as  if  despair  impelled  her  to  seek 
there  some  ray  of  comfort  amid  such  a  multitude  of 
sinister  omens. 

Depressing  as  the  young  woman's  surroundings 
were,  that  face,  notwithstanding  the  tranquillity  of 
sleep,  seemed  even  more  depressing  than  all  else. 
The  light  of  the  lamp  which  was  gradually  dying  by 
the  bedside  flickered  unsteadily  in  the  gusts  of  wind 
and  lighted  up  the  count's  face  only  at  intervals,  so 
that  its  movements  over  that  face  in  repose  simu- 
lated the  struggles  of  a  tempestuous  thought.  The 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  239 

countess  could  hardly  convince  herself  of  the  real 
cause  of  the  phenomenon.  Each  time  that  a  gust  of 
wind  projected  the  light  upon  that  great  head,  shad- 
ing the  numerous  bumps  that  marked  it,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  her  husband  was  about  to  fix  his  eyes  upon 
her  with  a  glare  of  intolerable  ferocity.  Implacable 
as  the  conflict  then  waging  between  the  Church  and 
Calvinism,  the  count's  brow  was  threatening  even 
in  sleep;  numerous  furrows  due  to  the  excitement 
of  a  warlike  life  imparted  to  it  a  vague  resemblance 
to  the  vermiculated  stones  of  which  the  monuments 
of  that  age  are  constructed;  hair  prematurely  gray, 
like  the  white  moss  that  grows  upon  aged  oaks,  sur- 
rounded that  brow,  but  endowed  it  with  no  grace, 
and  religious  intolerance  there  displayed  its  fierce 
brutality.  An  aquiline  nose  which  resembled  the 
beak  of  a  bird  of  prey,  the  black,  wrinkled  circles 
around  a  yellow  eye,  the  bones  protruding  in  the 
emaciated  cheeks,  the  rigidity  of  the  deep  wrinkles, 
the  disdain  stamped  upon  the  lower  lip,  all  combined 
to  indicate  a  despotic  nature,  and  a  strength  of  will 
the  more  to  be  feared  because  the  narrowness  of  the 
skull  pointed  to  absolute  lack  of  intelligence  and 
an  ungenerous  courage.  The  face  was  horribly  dis- 
figured by  a  broad  scar  across  the  right  cheek, 
where  it  formed  a  sort  of  second  mouth.  At  the 
age  of  thirty-three,  the  count,  eager  to  make  a  name 
for  himself  in  the  unhappy  religious  war  for  which 
the  signal  was  given  by  the  Saint  Bartholomew, 
was  severely  wounded  at  the  siege  of  La  Rochelle. 
The  mischance  of  his  wound,  to  use  the  language 


240  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

of  the  time,  increased  his  hatred  for  the  partisans  of 
the  Reformed  religion;  but,  naturally  enough,  he 
also  included  all  men  with  handsome  faces  in  his 
antipathy.  Even  before  the  catastrophe,  he  was  so 
ugly  that  no  woman  wo^ld  consent  to  receive  his 
attentions.  The  only  passion  of  his  youth  was  for  a 
famous  woman  called  the  Fair  Roman.  The  distrust 
due  to  this  added  impairment  of  his  beauty  made  him 
so  sensitive  that  he  no  longer  deemed  it  possible  to  in- 
spire a  genuine  passion;  and  his  disposition  became  so 
fierce,  that,  whatever  success  he  may  have  had  in  gal- 
lantry, he  owed  to  the  terror  inspired  by  his  cruelty. 
The  redoubtable  Catholic's  left  hand,  which  was 
outside  of  the  bedclothes,  completed  the  delineation 
of  his  character.  That  enormous  hand,  stretched 
out  as  if  to  cling  to  the  countess  as  a  miser  clings 
to  his  treasure,  was  covered  with  such  an  abundance 
of  hair,  it  displayed  such  a  network  of  protruding 
veins  and  muscles,  that  it  resembled  the  branch  of 
a  beech-tree  surrounded  by  the  stalks  of  a  withered 
ivy.  A  child,  upon  looking  at  the  count's  face,  would 
have  recognized  in  him  one  of  the  ogres  of  whom 
blood-curdling  tales  are  told  them  by  their  nurses. 
The  length  and  breadth  of  the  space  he  occupied  in 
bed  sufficed  to  indicate  his  gigantic  proportions.  His 
thick  gray  eyebrows  concealed  the  lids  in  such  a 
way  as  to  heighten  the  brilliancy  of  the  eye,  in  which 
gleamed  the  luminous  ferocity  of  the  eye  of  a  wolf 
lying  in  wait  among  the  underbrush.  Beneath  his 
lion's  nose,  two  great  moustaches,  quite  unkempt, — 
for  he  had  a  strange  contempt  for  matters  of  the 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  241 

toilet, — concealed  the  upper  lip.  Luckily  for  the 
countess,  her  husband's  vast  mouth  was  silent  at 
that  moment,  for  the  softest  notes  of  that  hoarse 
voice  always  made  her  shudder.  Although  the 
count  was  barely  fifty  years  old,  one  might  easily 
take  him  for  sixty  at  first  sight,  such  inroads  had 
the  fatigues  of  war  made  upon  his  features,  without 
impairing  his  robust  constitution ;  but  he  had  very 
little  desire  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  mignon. 

The  countess,  who  was  just  completing  her  eight- 
eenth year,  offered  a  distressing  contrast  to  that 
huge  figure.  She  was  fair  and  slender.  Her  chest- 
nut hair,  tinged  with  gold,  played  upon  her  neck  like 
brown  clouds,  and  outlined  one  of  those  refined 
faces  which  Carlo  Dolci  invented  for  his  ivory-white 
Madonnas,  who  seem  on  the  point  of  expiring  under 
the  assaults  of  physical  pain.  You  would  have  said 
that  she  was  an  angelic  apparition  whose  mission  it 
was  to  soften  the  will  of  the  Comte  d'Herouville. 

"  No!  he  will  not  kill  us!"  she  cried,  mentally, 
after  gazing  long  at  her  husband.  "Is  he  not  sin- 
cere, noble,  brave,  and  true  to  his  word?" 

"  True  to  his  word  ?" — As  she  repeated  this  phrase 
in  her  thought,  she  started  convulsively,  then  sat  as 
if  stupefied. 

To  understand  the  horror  of  the  situation  in  which 
the  countess  was  placed,  it  is  necessary  to  add  that 
this  nocturnal  scene  took  place  in  1591,  when  civil 
war  reigned  in  France,  and  the  laws  were  without 
force.  The  excesses  of  the  League,  which  was 
opposed  to  the  accession  of  Henri  IV.,  surpassed  all 
16 


242  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

the  calamities  of  the  religious  wars.  The  prevailing 
license  reached  such  a  height  that  no  one  was  sur- 
prised when  a  great  nobleman  caused  his  enemy  to 
be  murdered  publicly,  in  broad  daylight.  When  a 
military  expedition,  undertaken  to  serve  some  pri- 
vate interest,  was  carried  on  in  the  name  of  the 
League  or  of  the  king,  it  was  loudly  praised  on  both 
sides.  It  was  in  this  way  that  Balagny,  a  soldier, 
very  nearly  became  a  sovereign  prince  at  the  gates 
of  France.  As  for  murders  committed  en  famille,  if 
we  may  be  allowed  to  use  the  expression,  people 
paid  no  more  heed  to  them,  says  a  contemporary, 
than  to  a  bale  of  straw,  unless  the  attendant  circum- 
stances were  altogether  too  inhuman.  Some  time 
before  the  death  of  King  Henri  III.,  a  lady  of  the 
court  killed  a  gentleman  who  had  made  some  slan- 
derous remarks  concerning  her.  One  of  the  king's 
mignons  said  to  him : 

"Vive-Dieu!  sire,  she  stabbed  him  right  neatly!" 
By  such  rigorous  procedure,  the  Comte  d'Herou- 
ville,  one  of  the  most  fanatical  Royalists  in  Nor- 
mandie,  held  under  obedience  to  Henri  IV.  all  that 
part  of  the  province  which  bordered  on  Bretagne. 
He  was  the  head  of  one  of  the  wealthiest  families 
of  France,  and  had  increased  his  revenues  materially 
by  his  marriage,  seven  months  before  the  night 
on  which  this  narrative  commences,  with  Jeanne 
de  Saint-Savin,  a  young  woman  who,  by  a  coinci- 
dence not  uncommon  in  those  days,  when  people  died 
like  flies,  had  unexpectedly  become  entitled  to  the 
estates  of  both  branches  of  the  family  of  Saint-Savin. 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  243 

Necessity  and  fear  were  the  sole  witnesses  of  that 
marriage.  At  a  banquet  given,  two  months  later, 
by  the  town  of  Bayeux  to  the  count  and  countess, 
in  commemoration  of  their  union,  a  discussion  arose 
which,  in  that  age  of  ignorance,  was  considered  very 
absurd ;  it  related  to  the  alleged  legitimacy  of  chil- 
dren born  ten  months  after  the  husband's  death,  or 
seven  months  after  the  wedding-night. 

"Madame,"  said  the  count,  roughly,  to  his  wife, 
"as  for  you  presenting  me  with  a  child  ten  months 
after  my  death,  I  can't  help  that.  But  don't  begin 
by  lying-in  at  seven  months!" 

"Why,  what  would  you  do,  old  bear?"  inquired 
the  young  Marquis  de  Verneuil,  thinking  that  the 
count  was  in  jest. 

"  I  would  wring  the  mother's  neck  and  the  child's 
at  short  notice." 

That  peremptory  reply  put  an  end  to  the  discus- 
sion, which  was  imprudently  started  by  a  nobleman 
of  Lower  Normandie.  The  guests  held  their  peace, 
and  glanced  with  a  sort  of  terror  at  the  Comtesse 
d'Herouville.  All  were  convinced  that,  if  the  thing 
should  happen,  that  savage  nobleman  would  carry 
out  his  threat. 

The  count's  words  rang  in  the  breast  of  the  young 
woman,  who  was  enceinte  at  the  time;  instantly,  one 
of  those  presentiments  which  pierce  the  mind  like  a 
lightning-flash  illuminating  the  future  told  her  that 
she  would  lie  in  at  seven  months.  A  hot  wave 
enveloped  her  inwardly  from  head  to  feet,  concen- 
trating her  vitality  at  the  heart  with  such  violence 


244  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

that  she  felt  externally  as  if  she  were  in  an  ice-cold 
bath.  Thereafter,  not  a  day  passed  that  a  thrill  of 
secret  terror  did  not  check  the  most  innocent  im- 
pulses of  her  heart.  The  memory  of  the  expres- 
sion and  intonation  which  accompanied  the  count's 
decree  still  froze  her  blood  and  imposed  silence  on 
her  suffering  as  she  leaned  over  that  sleeping  face, 
seeking  to  find  there  during  its  slumber  some  indi- 
cations of  a  compassion  which  she  sought  in  vain 
during  its  waking  hours.  As  the  child,  threatened 
with  death  before  its  birth,  made  a  vigorous  move- 
ment as  if  demanding  light,  she  exclaimed  in  a  voice 
which  resembled  a  sigh : 

"Poor  dear!" 

She  did  not  finish;  there  are  thoughts  which  a 
mother  cannot  endure.  Incapable  of  reasoning  at 
that  moment,  the  countess  was  suffocated,  as  it 
were,  by  an  agony  which  she  had  never  before 
known.  Two  tears  escaped  from  her  eyes,  trickled 
slowly  down  her  cheeks,  leaving  two  glistening  lines, 
and  clung  tremblingly  to  the  lower  curve  of  her  pale 
face,  like  two  drops  of  dew  on  the  edge  of  a  lily. 
What  scholar  would  dare  to  say  that  the  unborn 
child  exists  upon  neutral  ground,  where  the  mother's 
emotions  do  not  reach  it  in  those  hours  when  the 
soul  embraces  the  body  and  communicates  its  im- 
pressions to  it,  when  the  thought  infiltrates  the  blood 
with  healing  balms  or  poisonous  fluids?  Did  this 
dread  which  shook  the  tree  disturb  the  fruit?  Were 
the  words:  "  Poor  dear!"  a  judgment  dictated  by 
visions  of  the  future?  The  mother's  convulsive 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  245 

motion  was  very  violent  and  her  glance  was  very 
piercing! 

The  murderous  reply  to  which  the  count  had  given 
vent  was  a  mysterious  link  between  his  wife's  past 
and  this  premature  lying-in.  His  hateful  suspicions, 
expressed  so  publicly,  had  implanted  in  the  count- 
ess's memory  the  terror  which  echoed  in  her  future. 
Since  that  fatal  banquet,  she  endeavored  to  dispel, 
with  a  dread  equal  to  the  pleasure  with  which 
another  woman  would  have  evoked  them,  a  multi- 
tude of  pictures,  scattered  through  her  past  years, 
which  her  vivid  imagination  often  brought  before  her 
despite  her  efforts.  She  shunned  the  moving  thought 
of  the  happy  days  when  her  heart  was  free  to  love. 
Like  the  melodies  of  home  which  make  exiles  weep, 
such  thoughts  recalled  sensations  so  delightful  that 
her  young  conscience  reproached  her  for  them  as  so 
many  crimes,  and  made  use  of  them  to  make  the 
count's  threat  seem  still  more  terrible:  such  was  the 
secret  of  the  horror  by  which  the  countess  was 
oppressed. 

Sleeping  faces  possess  a  sort  of  gentleness  due 
to  perfect  repose  of  body  and  mind;  but  although  that 
perfect  repose  changed  but  little  the  harsh  expres- 
sion of  the  count's  features,  illusion  displays  such 
attractive  mirages  to  the  unhappy,  that  the  young 
woman  at  last  derived  some  hope  from  their  calm- 
ness. The  storm,  which  was  now  venting  itself  in 
torrents  of  rain,  had  subsided  to  a  melancholy  moan- 
ing; in  like  manner,  her  fears  and  her  pain  gave  her 
a  moment's  respite.  As  she  gazed  upon  the  man  to 


246  THE    ACCURSED    CHILD 

whom  her  life  was  bound,  the  countess  allowed  her- 
self to  drift  into  a  reverie  so  intoxicatingly  sweet 
that  she  lacked  force  to  break  its  charm.  In  an 
instant,  by  one  of  those  visions  in  which  there  is 
something  of  the  divine  power,  she  evoked  in  rapid 
succession  the  images  of  a  happiness  vanished  be- 
yond recall. 

First  of  all,  Jeanne  saw  indistinctly,  as  if  in  the 
distant  light  of  dawn,  the  modest  chateau  in  which 
she  had  passed  her  happy,  careless  childhood ;  there 
were  the  greensward,  the  rippling  brook,  the  little 
bedroom,  the  theatre  of  her  first  games.  She  saw 
herself  plucking  flowers,  planting  them,  and  unable 
to  understand  why  they  all  withered  and  refused  to 
grow,  notwithstanding  her  constancy  in  watering 
them.  Soon  the  great  city  appeared,  still  indis- 
tinctly, and  the  great  house,  blackened  by  time,  to 
which  she  was  taken  by  her  mother  at  the  age 
of  seven.  Her  mocking  memory  showed  her  the 
wrinkled  faces  of  the  teachers  who  tormented  her. 
Amid  a  torrent  of  Spanish  and  Italian  words,  while 
mentally  repeating  ballads  sung  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  dainty  rebeck,  she  recalled  her  father's 
person.  She  used  to  go  to  meet  the  president  on  his 
return  from  the  Palais,  she  would  watch  him  alight 
from  his  mule  at  the  horse-block,  would  take  his  hand 
to  climb  the  staircase  with  him,  and  with  her  childish 
prattle  would  banish  the  judicial  anxieties  which  he 
did  not  always  lay  aside  with  the  black  or  red  robe, 
whose  black  and  white  fur  border  fell  a  prey  to  her 
mischievous  scissors.  She  cast  but  a  single  glance  at 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  247 

her  aunt's  confessor, — her  aunt  was  the  Superior  of 
the  nuns  of  Sainte-Clair, — a  stern,  fanatical  man,  to 
whom  was  entrusted  the  duty  of  initiating  her  into 
the  mysteries  of  religion.  Hardened  by  the  severe 
measures  which  heresy  necessitated,  that  old  priest 
rattled  the  chains  of  hell  at  every  opportunity, 
talked  of  nothing  but  the  vengeance  of  Heaven,  and 
kept  her  in  a  constant  state  of  dread  by  persuading 
her  that  she  was  always  in  the  presence  of  God. 
She  became  so  timid  that  she  dared  not  raise  her 
eyes,  and  had  no  respect  for  anyone  except  her 
mother,  whom  she  had  hitherto  made  the  confidante 
of  her  childish  escapades.  From  this  time,  a  relig- 
ious terror  took  possession  of  her  when  she  saw  that 
dearly  beloved  mother  fix  her  eyes  upon  her  with  an 
appearance  of  anger. 

Suddenly  she  saw  herself  in  the  second  period  of 
her  childhood,  during  which  she  was  still  entirely 
ignorant  of  life.  She  greeted  with  an  almost  ironical 
regret  those  days  when  her  happiness  consisted 
in  working  with  her  mother  in  a  small  embroidery- 
room,  praying  in  a  huge  church,  singing  a  ballad  to 
the  accompaniment  of  a  rebeck,  reading  in  secret  a 
book  of  chivalry,  tearing  a  flower  to  pieces  from 
curiosity  to  see  what  presents  her  father  would  give 
her  on  Saint- John's  Day,  and  trying  to  decipher  the 
meaning  of  remarks  which  people  did  not  finish  in 
her  presence. 

She  speedily  rubbed  out  with  a  single  thought,  as 
one  rubs  out  a  word  written  in  pencil  in  an  album, 
the  childish  delights  which,  during  that  moment  of 


248  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

respite  from  pain,  her  imagination  had  selected  from 
among  all  the  pictures  which  the  first  sixteen  years 
of  her  life  had  to  offer.  The  charm  of  that  limpid 
ocean  was  soon  eclipsed  by  the  splendor  of  a  more 
recent  memory,  tempestuous  though  it  was.  The 
joyous  placidity  of  her  childhood  brought  her  less 
pleasure  than  a  single  one  of  the  troubles  thickly 
strewn  along  the  last  two  years  of  her  life,  years 
rich  in  treasures  buried  forever  in  her  heart.  Sud- 
denly the  countess  reached  that  memorable  morn- 
ing, when,  at  the  end  of  the  great  parlor  with  the 
wainscot  of  carved  oak,  which  was  used  as  a  dining- 
room,  she  saw  her  handsome  cousin  for  the  first 
time.  Alarmed  by  the  seditious  outbreaks  in  Paris, 
his  mother's  family  had  sent  the  young  courtier  to 
Rouen,  in  the  hope  that  he  would  accustom  himself 
to  the  duties  of  the  magistracy  under  the  tutelage 
of  his  great-uncle,  whose  office  might  be  bestowed 
upon  him  some  day.  The  countess  smiled  involun- 
tarily as  she  thought  how  hastily  she  had  retired  at 
sight  of  that  unexpected  relation  whom  she  did  not 
know.  Despite  the  promptitude  with  which  she 
opened  and  closed  the  door,  that  one  glance  left 
upon  her  mind  such  a  clear  impression  of  the  scene 
that  she  seemed  to  see  it  all  once  more  as  she  saw 
it  when  she  turned  to  leave  the  room.  She  had 
then  admired  only  furtively  the  good  taste  and 
splendor  which  characterized  the  Paris-made  gar- 
ments; but  to-day,  more  daring  in  her  reminiscences, 
her  eye  ranged  freely  from  the  gold-embroidered, 
satin-lined  doublet  of  violet  velvet  to  the  spurs 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  249 

attached  to  the  boots,  and  from  the  dainty,  diamond- 
shaped  slashing  of  the  doublet  and  breeches  to  the 
rich  collar,  turned  back  so  as  to  show  the  smooth 
neck,  white  as  the  lace  itself.  She  ran  her  hand  over 
a  face  distinguished  by  a  pair  of  slight  moustaches 
twisted  to  a  point,  and  a  rqyale  like  one  of  the  ermine 
tails  attached  to  her  father's  hood.  Amid  the  silence 
and  the  darkness,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  silk 
curtains  which  she  no  longer  saw,  oblivious  of  both 
the  storm  and  her  husband,  the  countess  dared  to 
recall  how,  after  many  days  which  seemed  as  long 
as  years,  they  were  so  fully  occupied,  the  garden 
surrounded  by  ancient  black  walls,  and  her  father's 
gloomy  mansion,  seemed  to  her  all  gold  and  light. 
She  loved,  she  was  loved  !  How,  fearful  of  her 
mother's  stern  glances,  she  had  stolen  one  morning 
into  her  father's  study  to  impart  her  youthful  confi- 
dences to  him,  after  she  had  seated  herself  on  his 
knee  and  indulged  in  a  succession  of  playful  cajol- 
eries which  brought  a  smile  to  the  eloquent  magis- 
trate's lips,  a  smile  which  she  awaited  before  saying 
to  him: 

"  Will  you  promise  not  to  scold  me  if  I  tell  you 
something?" 

She  fancied  that  she  could  hear  her  father  say  to 
her,  after  a  questioning  in  which  she  had  mentioned 
her  love  for  the  first  time: 

"  Well,  my  child,  we  will  see.  If  he  studies  hard, 
if  he  chooses  to  succeed  me,  and  if  he  continues  to 
please  you,  why,  I  will  join  your  conspiracy." 

She  had  listened  to  nothing  more,  but  had  kissed 


250  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

her  father  and  upset  all  his  papers  as  she  hurried 
away  to  the  great  linden-tree,  where  she  met  the 
comely  Georges  de  Chaverny  every  morning,  before 
her  mother  was  out  of  bed  !  The  courtier  promised 
to  devour  laws  and  customs,  he  laid  aside  the  rich 
costume  of  the  nobility  of  the  sword  for  the  severe 
garb  of  the  magistrate. 

"  I  like  you  better  dressed  in  black,"  she  said. 

It  was  not  true,  but  the  fib  diminished  the  regret 
with  which  her  beloved  threw  away  the  sword.  The 
memory  of  the  stratagems  employed  to  deceive  her 
mother,  who  seemed  very  stern,  renewed  for  her 
the  fruitful  joys  of  an  innocent,  legitimate,  recipro- 
cated passion.  Their  rendezvous  was  under  the 
lindens,  where  they  could  talk  more  freely  without 
witnesses;  furtive  embraces  and  stolen  kisses, — in 
a  word,  all  the  earnest-money  of  the  passion  which 
does  not  overstep  the  bounds  of  modesty.  Living  ' 
anew  as  in  a  dream  those  blissful  days  when  she 
blamed  herself  for  having  been  too  happy,  she 
ventured  to  kiss  in  empty  space  that  face  with 
the  flashing  eyes,  those  red  lips  which  spoke  so 
eloquently  of  love.  She  had  loved  Chaverny,  a 
poor  man  in  appearance;  but  what  treasures  she 
had  discovered  in  that  soul,  as  gentle  as  it  was 
strong! 

Suddenly  the  president  dies,  Chaverny  does  not 
succeed  him,  civil  war  breaks  out  and  rages  fiercely. 
By  their  cousin's  efforts,  she  and  her  mother  find  a 
secret  place  of  refuge  in  a  small  town  of  Lower  Nor- 
mandie.  Soon  the  deaths  of  several  of  her  kindred 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  251 

in  rapid  succession  make  her  one  of  the  richest 
heiresses  in  France.  Happiness  vanishes  with  medi- 
ocrity of  fortune.  The  savage  and  terrifying  coun- 
tenance of  the  Comte  d'Herouville,  who  demands 
her  hand  in  marriage,  appears  to  her  like  a  cloud 
pregnant  with  thunder  spreading  its  gloomy  pall 
over  the  treasures  of  the  earth,  a  moment  since 
made  golden  by  the  sun.  The  poor  countess  strug- 
gles to  banish  the  memory  of  the  scenes  of  weeping 
and  despair  caused  by  her  long-continued  resistance. 
She  has  a  confused  vision  of  the  burning  of  the  little 
town,  then  of  Chaverny  the  Huguenot  thrown  into 
prison,  threatened  with  death  and  anticipating  horri- 
ble torture.  Then  comes  that  ghastly  evening  when 
her  mother,  pale  and  dying,  throws  herself  at  her 
feet:  Jeanne  is  able  to  save  her  cousin,  and  she 
yields.  It  is  night;  the  count,  returning  covered 
with  blood  from  the  battle-field,  is  ready  for  the 
ceremony;  he  produces  a  priest,  torches,  a  church! 
Jeanne  belongs  henceforth  to  unhappiness.  She  is 
hardly  allowed  to  say  adieu  to  her  handsome  cousin 
after  his  deliverance. 

"  Chaverny,  if  you  love  me,  never  see  me  more!" 
She  hears  the  sound  of  her  noble-hearted  lover's 
receding  footsteps;  she  has  never  seen  him  since, 
but  she  cherishes  in  the  depths  of  her  heart  his  last 
glance,  which  she  sees  so  often  in  her  dreams,  and 
which  interprets  her  dreams  for  her.  Like  a  cat 
confined  in  a  lion's  cage,  the  young  woman  is  in 
hourly  fear  of  the  monster's  claws,  which  threaten 
her  constantly.  The  countess  deems  herself  guilty 


252  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

of  a  crime  when,  on  certain  days  made  memorable 
by  some  unexpected  pleasure,  she  dons  the  dress 
which  the  maiden  wore  when  she  last  saw  her  lover. 
To-day,  if  she  would  be  happy,  she  must  forget  the 
past  and  cease  to  think  of  the  future. 

"  I  do  not  consider  myself  guilty,"  she  said  to  her- 
self; "but  if  I  appear  guilty  in  the  count's  eyes,  is 
it  not  the  same  as  if  I  were?  Indeed,  perhaps  I  am! 
Did  not  the  Blessed  Virgin  conceive  without — ?" 

She  paused. 

During  that  moment,  when  her  thoughts  were  like 
clouds,  when  her  mind  was  travelling  through  the 
world  of  fantasy,  her  innocence  led  her  to  attribute 
to  the  last  glance,  whereby  her  lover  flashed  all  his 
life  into  her  being,  the  power  to  accomplish  what  the 
angelic  visitation  accomplished  with  the  mother  of 
the  Saviour.  This  supposition,  worthy  of  the  period 
of  innocence  to  which  her  memory  had  taken  her 
back,  vanished  before  the  memory  of  a  conjugal 
scene  more  odious  than  death.  The  poor  countess 
could  no  longer  harbor  any  doubt  as  to  the  legitimacy 
of  the  child  that  was  stirring  in  her  womb.  The 
wedding-night  rose  up  before  her  with  all  the  horror 
of  its  agony,  bringing  in  its  train  many  other  nights 
and  even  more  melancholy  days! 

"Ah!  poor  Chaverny!"  she  cried,  weeping  bit- 
terly, "  you  were  so  submissive,  so  gracious,  always 
conferring  blessings  upon  me!" 

She  turned  her  eyes  upon  her  husband,  as  if  to 
convince  herself  that  that  face  gave  promise  of  a 
clemency  so  dearly  bought.  The  count  was  awake. 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  253 

His  yellow  eyes,  bright  as  a  tiger's,  gleamed  beneath 
his  bushy  eyebrows,  and  never  had  his  glance  been 
more  piercing  than  at  that  moment.  The  countess, 
terrified  to  have  met  that  glance,  crept  under  the 
counterpane  and  lay  quite  still. 

"Why  are  you  weeping?"  demanded  the  count, 
roughly  pulling  away  the  clothes  beneath  which  his 
wife  had  taken  refuge. 

That  voice,  always  terrifying  to  her,  had  at  that 
moment  an  artificial  softness  which  seemed  to  her  of 
good  augury. 

"  I  am  in  terrible  pain,"  she  replied. 

"  Well,  my  love,  is  it  a  crime  to  be  in  pain?  Why 
do  you  tremble  when  I  look  at  you?  Alas!  what 
must  I  do  to  win  your  love?" 

All  the  wrinkles  of  his  forehead  gathered  in  a  mass 
between  his  eyebrows. 

"  I  always  frighten  you,  I  can  see  that  plainly 
enough,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh. 

Impelled  by  the  instinct  of  weak  natures,  the  count- 
ess interrupted  the  count  with  a  groan,  and  exclaimed: 

"  I  am  afraid  of  a  miscarriage!  I  clambered  over 
the  cliffs  all  the  evening,  and  I  must  have  over- 
fatigued  myself." 

When  he  heard  these  words,  Sire  d'Herouville 
cast  such  a  suspicious  glance  at  his  wife  that  she 
shuddered  and  the  blood  rushed  to  her  face.  He 
mistook  the  terror  he  inspired  in  that  innocent  crea- 
ture for  a  manifestation  of  remorse. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  the  beginning  of  a  genuine  confine- 
ment?" he  suggested. 


254  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

"And  if  it  were?"  she  said,  inquiringly. 

"Why,  in  any  event,  we  must  have  a  skilful  man 
here,  and  I  will  go  to  fetch  him." 

The  sombre  expression  which  accompanied  these 
words  froze  the  countess's  blood;  she  fell  back  on 
the  bed  with  a  sigh,  extorted  rather  by  a  presenti- 
ment of  her  destiny  than  by  the  agony  of  the  im- 
pending crisis.  That  sigh  satisfied  the  count  of  the 
reasonableness  of  the  suspicions  springing  up  in  his 
mind.  Affecting  a  calmness  which  was  belied  by 
the  tone  of  his  voice,  his  movements,  and  the  ex- 
pression of  his  eyes,  he  rose  hurriedly,  wrapped 
himself  in  a  gown  which  he  found  on  a  chair,  and 
began  operations  by  locking  a  door  near  the  fire- 
place, which  led  from  the  state  bedroom  to  the  suite 
of  reception-rooms  opening  on  the  staircase  of  honor. 
Observing  that  her  husband  retained  the  key,  the 
countess  had  a  presentiment  of  disaster;  she  heard 
him  open  the  door  opposite  the  one  he  had  locked, 
and  go  into  another  room  where  the  Comtes  d'Herou- 
ville  were  accustomed  to  sleep  when  they  did  not 
honor  their  wives  with  their  noble  company.  The 
countess  knew  only  by  hearsay  for  what  purpose 
that  room  was  used,  as  jealousy  kept  her  husband 
by  her  side.  If,  perchance,  some  military  expedition 
compelled  him  to  absent  himself  from  the  nuptial 
bed,  he  left  at  the  chateau  Argus-eyed  servitors, 
whose  incessant  watchfulness  betrayed  his  insulting 
distrust. 


Although  the  countess  listened  with  the  closest 
attention  for  the  slightest  sound,  she  heard  nothing 
more.  The  count  had  passed  into  a  long  gallery 
which  adjoined  his  apartment,  and  occupied  the  west 
wing  of  the  chateau.  The  Cardinal  d'Herouville, 
his  great-uncle,  an  enthusiastic  collector  of  printed 
books,  had  assembled  there  a  library  as  interesting 
by  reason  of  the  beauty  of  the  volumes  as  by  their 
number,  and  prudence  had  led  him  to  arrange  in  the 
walls  one  of  those  inventions  which  are  suggested 
by  solitude  or  by  monastic  timidity.  A  silver  chain 
was  so  arranged  as  to  set  in  motion,  by  means  of 
invisible  wires,  a  bell  placed  by  a  trusty  servant's 
pillow.  The  count  pulled  the  chain,  and  soon  he 
heard  the  boots  and  spurs  of  the  squire  who  was  on 
guard  ringing  on  the  resonant  stones  of  a  spiral  stair- 
case in  the  lofty  tower  which  flanked  the  western 
wing  of  the  chateau,  toward  the  ocean.  When  he 
heard  his  retainer  mounting  the  stairs,  the  count 
proceeded  to  put  in  order  the  iron  springs  and  bolts 
which  secured  the  secret  door  leading  from  the  gal- 
lery to  the  turret,  and  admitted  to  that  sanctuary  of 
learning  a  man-at-arms  whose  figure  announced  him 
a  servant  worthy  of  the  master.  The  squire  was 
hardly  awake,  and  seemed  to  have  obeyed  the  sum- 
mons by  instinct;  the  horn  lantern  which  he  held 
in  his  hand  lighted  the  long  gallery  so  faintly  that 
(255) 


256  THE   ACCURSED   CHILD 

his  master  and  himself  were  vaguely  outlined  in 
the  darkness  like  two  phantoms. 

"  Saddle  my  battle-horse  instantly,  and  prepare 
to  attend  me." 

This  command  was  uttered  in  a  deep  voice  which 
fully  aroused  the  squire's  intelligence;  he  raised  his 
eyes  to  his  master's  face,  and  encountered  a  glance 
so  piercing,  that  he  received  an  electric  shock,  as  it 
were. 

"  Bertrand,"  the  count  added,  placing  his  right 
hand  on  the  squire's  arm,  "remove  your  cuirass 
and  put  on  the  costume  of  a  captain  of  miquelets." 

"Vrai-Dieu!  monseigneur,  disguise  myself  as  a 
Leaguer!  Pardon  me!  I  will  obey,  but  I  would 
much  prefer  to  be  hanged." 

The  count,  thus  flattered  in  his  fanaticism,  smiled; 
but,  to  counteract  that  smile,  which  contrasted  strik- 
ingly with  the  previous  expression  of  his  face,  he 
answered,  shortly: 

"  Select  a  horse  strong  enough  to  enable  you  to 
follow  me.  We  shall  ride  like  bullets  from  the 
arquebus.  Be  ready  when  I  am  ready.  I  will  ring 
again." 

Bertrand  bowed  silently,  and  left  the  room;  but 
when  he  had  descended  a  few  stairs,  he  said  to  him- 
self, noticing  the  howling  of  the  tempest: 

"Jarnidieu!  all  the  demons  are  abroad;  I  should 
have  been  much  surprised  if  this  one  had  kept  quiet. 
We  took  Saint-L6  by  surprise  in  such  a  storm." 

The  count  found  in  his  chamber  the  costume 
which  he  often  used  in  his  ruses.  Having  donned 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  257 

his  shabby  riding-coat,  which  looked  as  if  it  might 
belong  to  one  of  the  poor  troopers  whose  wages  were 
so  rarely  paid  by  Henri  IV.,  he  returned  to  the  room 
where  his  wife  lay  groaning. 

"  Try  to  endure  the  pain  patiently,"  he  said.  "I 
will  founder  my  horse,  if  need  be,  in  order  to  return 
more  quickly  and  alleviate  your  suffering." 

These  words  did  not  seem  ominous  of  evil  to 
come,  and  his  wife,  somewhat  emboldened,  was  pre- 
paring to  ask  a  question,  when  he  suddenly  asked 
her: 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  your  masks  are?" 

"My  masks?"  she  replied.  "Bon  Dieu!  what  do 
you  want  of  them?" 

"Where  are  your  masks?"  he  repeated,  with  his 
usual  violence. 

"  In  the  wardrobe,"  she  said. 

She  could  not  restrain  a  shudder  when  she  saw 
her  husband  select  a  touret  de  ne%,*  the  use  of  which 
was  as  general  among  the  fine  ladies  of  that  time  as 
the  use  of  gloves  by  the  women  of  the  present  day. 
The  count  was  entirely  unrecognizable  when  he  had 
placed  upon  his  head  a  dilapidated  gray  felt  hat, 
adorned  with  a  broken  cock's-feather.  He  buckled 
about  his  waist  a  broad  leather  belt,  in  which  he 
thrust  a  dagger  which  he  did  not  commonly  wear. 
This  shabby  costume  gave  him  such  an  alarming 
appearance,  and  his  movements  as  he  approached 
the  bed  were  so  strange,  that  the  countess  thought 
her  last  hour  had  come. 

*  A  small  black  mask. 
17 


258  THE   ACCURSED   CHILD 

"Oh!  do  not  kill  us!"  she  cried;  "  leave  me  my 
child,  and  I  will  love  you  dearly." 

"You  must  feel  exceedingly  guilty  to  offer  me, 
as  a  ransom  for  your  sins,  the  love  which  you  owe 
me!" 

The  count's  voice  had  a  disheartening  sound  be- 
hind the  velvet  mask;  his  bitter  words  were  accom- 
panied by  a  glance  as  heavy  as  lead,  a  glance  which 
crushed  the  countess  when  it  fell  upon  her. 

"  Mon  Dien!"  she  cried,  piteously,  "  can  it  be  that 
innocence  brings  misfortune?" 

"There  is  no  question  of  your  death,"  her  lord 
replied,  rousing  himself  from  the  reverie  into  which 
he  had  fallen,  "  but  you  are  to  do  exactly,  and  for 
love  of  me,  what  I  demand  of  you  at  this  moment." 

He  threw  on  the  bed  one  of  the  two  masks  he  held 
in  his  hand,  and  smiled  pityingly  as  he  noticed  the 
involuntary  gesture  of  terror  caused  by  the  fall  of 
the  light  black  velvet. 

"  The  child  you  give  me  will  be  a  lively  one,  at 
least!"  he  cried.  "  Have  this  mask  on  your  face 
when  I  return,"  he  added.  "I  do  not  choose  that 
any  clown  shall  boast  that  he  has  seen  the  Comtesse 
d'Herouville." 

"Why  have  a  man  for  this  service?"  she  asked 
in  a  low  tone. 

"  Oho!  am  I  not  the  master  here,  my  love?"  re- 
torted the  count. 

"What  matters  one  mystery  more!"  said  the 
countess,  in  despair. 

As  her  master  had  disappeared,  this  exclamation 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  259 

was  without  danger;  the  oppressor  often  carries  his 
measures  as  far  as  the  victim's  fear  extends.  In  one 
of  the  brief  lulls  which  separated  the  fierce  squalls, 
the  countess  heard  the  hoof-beats  of  two  horses 
which  seemed  to  fly  among  the  perilous  sand-dunes 
and  cliffs  upon  which  the  chateau  was  built.  The 
sound  was  soon  drowned  by  the  roar  of  the  waves. 
She  was  a  prisoner  in  that  gloomy  apartment,  alone, 
amid  darkness  now  silent,  now  menacingly  noisy, 
and  without  means  to  turn  aside  a  catastrophe  which 
she  saw  striding  rapidly  toward  her.  The  countess 
tried  to  invent  some  ruse  to  save  the  child  conceived 
in  sorrow,  and  already  become  her  sole  consolation, 
the  moving  principle  of  her  thoughts,  the  future  of 
her  affections,  her  only,  though  frail,  hope.  Sus- 
tained by  maternal  courage,  she  took  the  little  horn 
which  her  husband  used  to  summon  his  people, 
opened  a  window,  and  blew  a  faint,  shrill  blast, 
which  was  lost  on  the  vast  expanse  of  water,  like 
a  bubble  blown  into  the  air  by  a  child.  She  realized 
the  uselessness  of  that  lament,  unheard  by  man, 
and  began  to  pace  back  and  forth  through  her  apart- 
ments, hoping  to  find  some  door  unlocked.  When 
she  reached  the  library,  she  tried  to  no  purpose  to 
find  some  secret  passage;  she  passed  through  the 
long  book-lined  gallery  to  the  window  nearest  the 
courtyard  of  honor  of  the  chateau,  and  once  more 
woke  the  echoes  with  the  horn,  contending  unsuc- 
cessfully with  the  voice  of  the  storm.  In  her  dis- 
couragement, she  thought  of  confiding  in  one  of  her 
women,  all  of  whom  were  her  husband's  creatures; 


2(50  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

but,  as  she  passed  through  the  oratory,  she  saw  that 
the  count  had  fastened  the  door  leading  to  their 
apartments.  This  was  a  horrible  discovery.  All 
these  precautions  taken  to  isolate  her  indicated  a 
wish  to  proceed  without  witnesses  to  the  execution 
of  some  terrible  purpose. 

As  the  countess's  hope  faded  away,  her  pains  be- 
came sharper,  more  agonizing.  The  foreboding  of  a 
possible  murder,  added  to  the  fatigue  resulting  from 
her  efforts,  deprived  her  of  her  remaining  strength. 
She  was  like  a  shipwrecked  man  who  succumbs  to 
the  attack  of  a  wave  of  less  power  than  those  with 
which  he  has  battled  successfully.  The  painful 
delirium  of  childbirth  made  it  impossible  for  her  to 
count  the  hours.  At  the  moment  when  she  thought 
that  she  was  about  to  be  delivered,  alone  and  unas- 
sisted, and  when  her  terror  was  magnified  by  dread 
of  the  accidents  to  which  her  inexperience  exposed 
her,  the  count  abruptly  appeared ;  she  had  heard  no 
sound  which  announced  his  coming.  He  seemed  a 
demon,  claiming,  at  the  expiration  of  a  compact,  the 
soul  that  had  been  sold  to  him ;  he  growled  under 
his  breath  when  he  saw  that  his  wife's  face  was 
uncovered;  but,  having  deftly  covered  it  with  the 
mask,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  placed  her  on 
the  bed  in  her  chamber. 

The  alarm  caused  by  his  sudden  appearance  and 
his  acts  checked  the  countess's  pains  for  the  mo- 
ment; she  was  able  to  cast  a  furtive  glance  upon  the 
actors  in  this  scene,  but  failed  to  recognize  Bertrand, 
who  was  masked  as  carefully  as  his  master.  Having 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  261 

hastily  lighted  several  candles,  whose  light  blended 
with  the  first  sunbeams  which  were  reddening  the 
window-panes,  the  servant  leaned  against  the  angle 
of  a  window  recess.  There,  with  his  face  turned 
toward  the  wall,  he  seemed  to  be  estimating  its 
thickness,  and  stood  so  absolutely  motionless  that 
one  might  have  taken  him  for  the  statue  of  a  knight. 
In  the  centre  of  the  room,  the  countess  saw  a  short, 
stout  man,  gasping  for  breath,  whose  eyes  were  band- 
aged, and  whose  features  were  so  distorted  by  fright 
that  she  was  unable  to  imagine  their  usual  expression. 

"God's  death,  master  knave,"  said  the  count, 
restoring  the  stranger's  sight  by  an  abrupt  move- 
ment which  caused  the  bandage  to  fall  upon  his 
neck,  "  presume  not  to  rest  your  eyes  upon  any 
other  object  than  the  wretch  upon  whom  you  are 
to  exercise  your  science;  otherwise  I  will  cast  you 
into  the  stream  which  flows  beneath  these  windows, 
after  fastening  around  your  neck  a  diamond  necklace 
weighing  more  than  a  hundred  pounds!" 

And  he  touched  the  cravat  which  he  had  used  as 
a  bandage  and  which  lay  across  his  stupefied  audi- 
tor's breast. 

"Ascertain  at  first  if  it  be  a  miscarriage  simply; 
in  that  case,  your  life  will  answer  to  me  for  hers; 
but,  if  the  child  is  living,  bring  it  to  me." 

After  this  apostrophe,  the  count  seized  the  poor 
operator  by  the  waist,  lifted  him  as  if  he  were  a 
feather,  and  deposited  him  beside  the  countess.  He 
then  stationed  himself  in  the  depths  of  the  window- 
recess,  and  began  to  drum  on  the  glass,  glancing  at 


262  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

his  servant,  the  bed,  and  the  ocean  in  turn,  as  if  he 
intended  to  promise  the  child  about  to  be  born  the 
sea  .for  its  cradle. 

The  man  whom  the  count  and  Bertrand  had,  with 
incredible  violence,  roused  from  the  sweetest  slumber 
which  ever  closed  mortal  eyes,  and  bound  en  croupe 
upon  a  horse  which  he  might  well  have  deemed  to 
be  pursued  by  the  legions  of  hell,  was  a  personage 
whose  physiognomy  was  a  type  of  the  characteristic 
physiognomy  of  that  epoch,  and  whose  influence 
was  destined  to  make  itself  felt  in  the  D'Herouville 
family. 

Never,  in  any  period  of  the  world's  history,  were 
the  nobles  less  informed  in  the  natural  sciences,  and 
never  was  the  science  of  astrology  held  in  greater 
honor,  for  never  was  the  longing  to  know  the  future 
more  intense.  This  universal  ignorance  and  curi- 
osity had  brought  about  the  greatest  confusion  in 
human  knowledge;  each  individual's  knowledge  was 
confined  to  himself,  for  special  nomenclatures  were 
still  lacking;  printing  required  a  great  outlay,  and 
scientific  discoveries  were  transmitted  very  slowly; 
the  Church  persecuted  the  sciences,  wholly  of  in- 
vestigation, based  upon  analyses  of  natural  phenom- 
ena. Persecution  engendered  mystery.  In  the  mind 
of  the  common  people,  therefore,  and  of  the  nobles 
as  well,  physicist  and  alchemist,  mathematician 
and  astronomer,  astrologer  and  necromancer,  were 
all  confusedly  blended  in  the  person  of  the  physi- 
cian. In  those  days,  the  physician  of  superior  skill 
was  suspected  of  dealing  in  magic;  while  treating 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  263 

his  patients,  he  was  supposed  to  cast  horoscopes. 
The  princes  extended  their  protection  to  the  geniuses 
to  whom  the  future  was  revealed;  they  provided 
them  with  lodgings  in  their  own  palaces,  and  pen- 
sioned them.  The  famous  Cornelius  Agrippa,  who 
came  to  France  to  be  the  physician  of  Henri  II., 
refused  to  foretell  the  future  as  Nostradamus  did, 
and  was  dismissed  by  Catherine  de  Medici,  who  put 
Cosmo  Ruggieri  in  his  place.  Thus  the  men  who 
were  in  advance  of  their  age  and  who  devoted  them- 
selves to  the  sciences  were  by  no  means  appreciated; 
they  all  inspired  the  terror  with  which  most  people 
regarded  the  occult  sciences  and  their  results. 

While  he  was  not,  strictly  speaking,  one  of  these 
famous  mathematicians,  the  man  kidnapped  by  the 
count  enjoyed  in  Normandie  the  equivocal  reputation 
of  a  physician  sometimes  employed  in  mysterious 
tasks.  He  was  a  sorcerer  of  the  species  to  which 
the  peasants  in  several  districts  of  France  still  give 
the  name  of  rebouteur.*  The  name  was  applied  to 
certain  unpolished  geniuses  who,  without  apparent 
study,  but  as  the  result  of  hereditary  knowledge, 
and,  not  infrequently,  of  a  long  practice  from  father 
to  son,  the  observations  accruing  therefrom  being  pre- 
served in  the  family,  set  broken  arms  and  legs,  cured 
men  and  animals  of  certain  diseases,  and  possessed 
secrets,  alleged  to  be  supernatural,  for  the  treat- 
ment of  serious  cases.  Not  only  was  Master  Antoine 
Beauvouloir — such  was  the  bone-setter's  name — the 
son  and  grandson  of  two  famous  practitioners  from 

*  Bone-setter. 


264  THE  ACCURSED    CHILD 

whom  he  inherited  divers  valuable  traditions,  but  he 
was  well  informed  in  medical  science  and  was  inter- 
ested in  the  natural  sciences.  The  country  people 
saw  that  his  office  was  full  of  books  and  of  strange 
things  which  gave  a  tinge  of  sorcery  to  his  successes. 
While  he  was  not  looked  upon  precisely  as  a  sorcerer, 
Antoine  Beauvouloir  imposed  a  respect  very  nearly 
akin  to  terror  upon  the  common  people  within  a 
radius  of  thirty  leagues;  and — a  fact  fraught  with 
great  danger  to  himself — he  had  within  his  knowl- 
edge secrets  of  the  most  vital  importance  to  the 
noble  families  of  the  province.  Like  his  father 
and  grandfather,  he  was  famous  for  his  skill  in  cases 
of  childbirth,  abortion,  and  miscarriage.  Now,  in 
those  disorderly  times,  passions  were  so  fierce  and 
falls  from  grace  so  frequent  that  the  nobility  were 
often  compelled  to  admit  Master  Antoine  Beauvou- 
loir to  a  knowledge  of  shameful,  even  terrible  secrets. 
As  discretion  was  absolutely  essential  to  his  safety, 
his  discretion  was  equal  to  every  trial;  so  that  his 
clients  paid  him  handsomely  and  his  inherited  wealth 
was  largely  augmented.  Always  on  the  move,  some- 
times taken  by  surprise  as  he  had  been  by  the  count, 
sometimes  obliged  to  pass  several  days  at  the  house 
of  some  grande  dame,  he  had  never  married;  indeed, 
his  reputation  had  prevented  several  young  women 
from  marrying  him.  The  poor  bone-setter  was 
unable  to  find  consolation  in  the  hazards  of  his  pro- 
fession, which  gave  him  such  power  over  the  weak- 
nesses of  womankind;  he  felt  that  he  was  made  for 
the  joys  of  domestic  life,  but  could  not  procure  them. 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  265 

The  goodman  concealed  an  excellent  heart  beneath 
the  deceptive  appearances  of  a  jovial  disposition,  in 
harmony  with  his  chubby  cheeks,  his  rotundity,  the 
vivacious  movements  of  his  little  fat  body,  and  his 
outspokenness.  He  was  anxious  to  marry  in  order 
to  have  a  daughter  who  should  endow  some  impov- 
erished nobleman  with  his  wealth;  for  he  did  not 
love  his  trade  of  bone-setter,  and  aspired  to  raise 
his  family  from  the  inferior  station  to  which  the 
prejudices  of  the  time  consigned  it.  His  disposition 
had  accommodated  itself  to  the  merrymaking  and 
feasting  which  succeeded  his  most  serious  opera- 
tions. The  habit  of  being  always  the  most  impor- 
tant personage  in  the  company  had  added  to  his 
constitutional  gayety  a  touch  of  solemn  vanity. 
His  impertinences  were  almost  always  endured  at 
the  critical  moment,  when  it  was  his  delight  to  oper- 
ate with  a  certain  magisterial  moderation.  Moreover, 
he  was  as  inquisitive  as  a  nightingale,  as  gluttonous 
as  a  greyhound,  and  talkative  after  the  manner  of 
diplomats,  who  talk  without  ever  betraying  their 
secrets.  Making  due  allowance  for  these  short- 
comings, which  were  developed  by  the  innumerable 
adventures  into  which  his  profession  led  him,  Antoine 
Beauvouloir  was  considered  to  be  one  of  the  best  men 
in  Normandie.  Although  he  belonged  to  the  small 
number  of  men  whose  minds  were  in  advance  of  their 
generation,  the  natural  common  sense  of  a  Norman 
peasant  had  led  him  to  conceal  the  ideas  he  had  con- 
ceived and  the  truths  he  had  discovered. 

When  he  found  that  the  count  had  brought  him 


266  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

into  the  presence  of  a  woman  in  labor,  the  bone- 
setter  recovered  all  his  self-possession.  He  began 
to  feel  the  masked  lady's  pulse  without  thinking  of 
her  at  all;  but,  under  cover  of  this  professional  air, 
he  was  able  to  reflect,  and  did  reflect,  upon  his  own 
position.  In  no  one  of  the  shameful  and  criminal 
intrigues  in  which  he  had  been  compelled  by  force 
to  act  as  a  blind  instrument  had  such  minute  pre- 
cautions been  taken  as  in  this.  Although  his  death 
had  often  been  discussed,  as  a  method  of  assuring 
the  success  of  enterprises  in  which  he  was  involun- 
tarily involved,  his  life  had  never  been  in  such  great 
danger  as  at  that  moment.  First  of  all,  he  deter- 
mined to  discover  the  identity  of  his  employers, 
and  so  to  form  some  estimate  of  the  extent  of  his 
peril,  in  order  to  take  measures  to  save  his  precious 
life. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  in  an  under- 
tone, while  preparing  the  countess  to  receive  the  aid 
of  his  experience. 

"Don't  give  him  the  child." 

"  Speak  aloud !"  said  the  count  in  a  voice  of 
thunder,  which  prevented  Master  Beauvouloir  from 
hearing  the  victim's  last  word.  "  If  you  don't," 
added  the  nobleman,  carefully  disguising  his  voice, 
"you  may  say  your  In  Manns.1' 

"  Groan  aloud,"  said  the  bone-setter  to  the  patient. 
"Shriek!  jarnidieu!  this  man  has  jewels  which 
would  be  no  more  becoming  to  you  than  to  me! 
Courage,  my  little  lady!" 

"  Gently  with  your  hand  !"  cried  the  count  again. 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  267 

"Monsieur  is  jealous,"  rejoined  the  operator,  in 
a  shrill  voice,  which,  luckily,  was  drowned  by  the 
countess's  shrieks. 

For  Master  Beauvouloir's  benefit,  nature  was  kind. 
It  was  an  abortion  rather  than  childbirth,  the  child 
was  such  a  puny  creature,  and  caused  his  mother  so 
little  pain. 

"  By  the  Blessed  Virgin,"  cried  the  puzzled  bone- 
setter,  "this  is  no  miscarriage!" 

The  count  stamped  with  rage  until  the  floor  trem- 
bled, and  the  countess  pinched  Master  Beauvouloir. 

"Ah!  I  see,"  he  said  to  himself. — "It  should  be 
a  miscarriage,  eh?"  he  inquired  of  the  countess, 
under  his  breath;  she  replied  with  an  affirmative 
gesture,  as  if  there  were  no  other  language  to  ex- 
press her  thoughts. — "All  this  is  not  very  clear  as 
yet,"  thought  the  bone-setter. 

Like  all  skilful  practitioners,  he  readily  recognized 
the  countess  as  a  woman  who  was  experiencing  her 
first  misfortune,  as  he  expressed  it.  But,  although 
the  modest  awkwardness  of  some  of  her  movements 
demonstrated  her  inexperience,  the  malicious  fellow 
exclaimed : 

"Madame  bears  children  as  if  she  had  never  done 
anything  else!" 

Thereupon  the  count  said,  with  a  tranquillity  even 
more  terrifying  than  his  wrath: 

"  Give  me  the  child  !" 

"  In  God's  name,  do  not  give  it  to  him!"  cried  the 
mother;  the  almost  savage  shriek  awoke  in  the  little 
man's  heart  a  courageous  kindliness,  which  attracted 


268  THE  ACCURSED    CHILD 

him  more  strongly  than  he  himself  realized  to  this 
noble  child  denied  by  its  father. 

"  The  child  has  not  come  yet.  You  go  too  fast," 
he  replied,  concealing  the  little  fellow. 

Astonished  to  hear  no  cries,  he  glanced  at  the 
child,  thinking  that  he  was  already  dead;  the  count 
thereupon  detected  the  trick,  and  pounced  upon  him 
with  a  single  bound. 

"Tete-Dieu  pleine  de  reliques!  will  you  give  him  to 
me?"  he  shouted,  snatching  the  victim,  who  uttered 
a  feeble  wail. 

"Take  care!  for  he  is  misshapen  and  almost  a 
shadow,"  said  Master  Beauvouloir,  clinging  to  the 
count's  arm.  "  It's  a  seven  months'  child,  undoubt- 
edly!" 

Then,  with  unusual  strength  born  of  a  sort  of 
exaltation,  he  clutched  the  father's  fingers,  and  said 
in  his  ear,  in  a  broken  voice: 

"  Spare  yourself  a  crime;  he  will  not  live." 

"  Villain!"  hastily  retorted  the  count,  from  whose 
hands  the  bone-setter  had  torn  the  child,  "  who  says 
that  I  desire  my  son's  death?  Don't  you  see  that 
I  am  caressing  him?" 

"Wait  until  he  is  eighteen  years  old  before  you 
caress  him  like  that,"  replied  Beauvouloir,  recover- 
ing his  self-importance.  "  But,"  he  added,  thinking 
of  his  own  safety,  for  he  had  recognized  the  Comte 
d'Herouville,  who  in  his  excitement  had  forgotten  to 
disguise  his  voice,  "have  him  baptized  speedily,  and 
do  not  mention  my  prediction  to  the  mother;  if  you 
do,  you  will  kill  her." 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  269 

The  secret  joy  betrayed  by  the  count's  gesture 
when  the  child's  death  was  prophesied  had  sug- 
gested this  remark  to  the  bone-setter,  and  thus 
saved  the  child's  life.  Beauvouloir  made  haste  to 
carry  it  back  to  the  mother,  who  was  then  in  a 
swoon,  and  he  pointed  to  her  with  an  ironical  ges- 
ture, designed  to  alarm  the  count  by  calling  his  at- 
tention to  the  condition  into  which  their  dispute  had 
thrown  her.  The  countess  had  overheard  all,  for 
it  not  infrequently  happens  that  the  human  organs 
acquire  incredible  delicacy  of  perception  in  the  great 
crises  of  life;  however,  the  cries  of  her  child  as  he 
lay  on  the  bed  restored  her  life  as  by  magic;  she  fan- 
cied that  she  heard  the  voices  of  two  angels,  when, 
under  cover  of  the  new-born  babe's  outcries,  the 
bone-setter  whispered,  putting  his  mouth  to  her  ear : 

"Take  good  care  of  him,  he  will  live  a  hundred 
years.  Beauvouloir  understands  what  he  is  talking 
about." 

A  celestial  sigh,  a  mysterious  pressure  of  the  hand, 
were  his  reward;  meanwhile,  before  giving  over  to 
the  mother's  embrace  the  frail  creature  whose  skin 
still  bore  the  marks  of  the  count's  fingers,  he  en- 
deavored to  ascertain  whether  the  paternal  caress 
had  damaged  any  of  his  feeble  organs.  The  frenzied 
haste  with  which  the  mother  concealed  her  son  by 
her  side,  and  the  threatening  glance  she  darted  at 
the  count  through  the  holes  in  the  mask,  made 
Beauvouloir  shudder. 

"She  would  die  if  she  should  lose  her  son  too 
soon,"  he  said  to  the  count. 


270  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

During  the  last  part  of  this  scene,  the  Sire  d'He- 
rouville  seemed  not  to  have  heard  or  seen  anything. 
Standing  perfectly  still,  and  apparently  buried  in 
profound  meditation,  he  had  renewed  his  drumming 
on  the  window-pane;  but,  after  this  last  remark  of 
the  accoucheur,  he  turned  upon  him  with  a  gesture 
of  insane  rage  and  drew  his  dagger. 

"  Vile  manant!  "  he  cried,  giving  him  the  sobri- 
quet which  the  royalists  conferred  upon  the  Leaguers 
by  way  of  insult,  "  impudent  knave!  The  profes- 
sional skill  to  which  you  owe  the  honor  of  being  the 
confederate  of  noblemen  who  are  in  haste  to  open  or 
close  successions,  hardly  restrains  me  from  depriv- 
ing Normandie  of  its  sorcerer  forever." 

To  Beauvouloir's  great  satisfaction,  the  count  sav- 
agely thrust  the  dagger  into  its  sheath. 

"  Could  you  not,"  continued  the  Sire  d'Herou- 
ville,  "  be  content,  for  once  in  your  life,  to  enjoy  the 
society  of  a  nobleman  and  his  dame,  without  sus- 
pecting them  of  the  vile  designs  which  you  allow  the 
canaille  to  carry  out  in  peace,  not  reflecting  that  they 
are  not  justified  therein,  as  gentles  are,  by  reasona- 
ble motives?  Is  it  possible  that  I  have  reasons  of 
State  for  acting  as  you  assume  that  I  propose  to  act 
at  this  juncture?  Kill  my  son!  take  him  from  his 
mother!  What  put  such  foolish  nonsense  into  your 
head?  Am  I  mad  ?  Why  do  you  try  to  frighten  us 
about  the  life  of  such  a  sturdy  child  as  that?  Know, 
varlet,  that  I  distrusted  your  wretched  vanity.  If 
you  had  known  the  name  of  the  lady  you  were  to 
deliver,  you  would  have  boasted  that  you  had  seen 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  271 

her!  Paque-Dieu!  you  might,  perhaps,  have  killed 
mother  or  child  by  overcaution.  But  do  not  forget 
that  your  miserable  life  will  answer  to  me  both  for 
your  discretion  and  for  their  good  health!" 

The  bone-setter  was  stupefied  by  the  sudden 
change  in  the  count's  intentions.  This  outburst  of 
affection  for  the  child  terrified  him  even  more  than 
the  impatient  cruelty  and  stolid  indifference  mani- 
fested by  the  nobleman  at  first.  His  accent  as  he 
uttered  the  last  sentence  disclosed  a  more  cunning 
scheme  to  attain  the  accomplishment  of  an  un- 
changeable purpose.  Master  Beauvouloir  explained 
this  unforeseen  denouement  by  the  twofold  promise 
he  had  made  to  the  mother  and  the  father. 

"  I  understand!"  he  said  to  himself.  "  This  worthy 
seigneur  does  not  wish  to  make  himself  odious  to 
his  wife,  and  will  fall  back  on  the  physician's  lack 
of  care.  I  must  try,  therefore,  to  warn  the  lady 
to  keep  an  eye  on  her  nobly-born  brat." 

As  he  was  walking  toward  the  bed,  the  count, 
who  had  gone  to  a  wardrobe,  stopped  him  with  an 
imperative  gesture.  He  held  out  a  purse,  and  Beau- 
vouloir at  once,  not  without  an  uneasy  joy,  made  it 
his  duty  to  make  sure  of  the  gold  which  glistened 
through  the  red  silk  netting,  and  which  was  disdain- 
fully tossed  to  him. 

"Although  you  have  made  me  argue  like  a  serf, 
I  do  not  deem  myself  relieved  from  the  necessity  of 
paying  you  like  a  lord.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  be  dis- 
creet! This  man,"  continued  the  count,  pointing  to 
Bertrand,  "  has  doubtless  explained  to  you,  that, 


2/2  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

wherever  there  are  oak-trees  and  rivers,  there  my 
diamonds  and  my  necklaces  have  a  way  of  finding 
manants  who  chatter  about  me." 

As  he  concluded  this  merciful  speech,  he  walked 
slowly  toward  the  stupefied  bone-setter,  noisily 
pushed  a  chair  in  his  direction,  and  seemed  to  invite 
him  to  sit  down,  as  he  himself  did,  beside  the  mother's 
bed. 

"Well,  my  love,  so  we  have  a  son  at  last,"  he 
continued.  "  It  is  a  great  joy  to  us.  Are  you  in 
much  pain?" 

"  No,"  murmured  the  countess. 

The  mother's  surprise  and  embarrassment,  and 
the  tardy  manifestations  of  factitious  pleasure  on 
the  father's  part,  convinced  Master  Beauvouloir  that 
some  incident  of  grave  importance  had  escaped  his 
usual  penetration;  he  persisted  in  his  suspicions  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  that  of  the  young  woman,  not  so 
much  to  ascertain  her  condition  as  to  give  her  some 
advice. 

"  The  skin  is  cool,"  he  said.  "There  is  no  reason 
to  fear  any  unpleasant  result  for  madame.  The  milk- 
fever  will  come,  doubtless,  in  due  time;  don't  be 
alarmed  at  that,  it  will  amount  to  nothing." 

At  that  point,  the  crafty  bone-setter  paused,  and 
pressed  the  countess's  hand  to  attract  her  attention. 

"  If  you  wish  to  be  free  from  anxiety  concerning 
your  child,  madame,  you  must  not  leave  him.  Let 
him  drink  for  a  long  time  to  come  the  milk  which  his 
little  lips  are  already  seeking;  nurse  him  yourself, 
and  beware  of  the  apothecary's  drugs.  The  bosom 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  273 

is  the  remedy  for  all  the  ills  of  children.  I  have 
given  much  attention  to  cases  of  confinement  at 
seven  months,  but  I  have  rarely  seen  a  labor  so  free 
from  pain  as  yours.  It  is  not  surprising,  the  child  is 
so  small !  you  could  put  him  in  a  shoe!  I  am  sure 
that  he  does  not  weigh  fifteen  ounces.  Milk!  milk! 
If  you  keep  him  always  upon  your  breast,  you  will 
save  him." 

These  last  words  were  accompanied  by  a  renewed 
pressure  of  the  fingers.  Despite  the  flaming  darts 
which  the  count's  eyes  shot  through  the  holes  in  his 
mask,  Beauvouloir  delivered  his  opinions  with  the 
imperturbable  gravity  of  a  man  who  wished  to  earn 
his  money. 

"  Ho!  bone-setter,  you  forget  your  old  black  hat," 
said  Bertrand  as  the  accoucheur  went  from  the  room 
with  his. 

The  motives  of  the  count's  new-born  clemency  to- 
ward his  son  were  derived  from  a  notary's  et  ccetera. 
At  the  very  moment  that  Beauvouloir  stayed  his 
hand,  avarice  and  the  custom  of  Normandie  had  risen 
before  him.  With  a  gesture,  those  two  powers  para- 
lyzed his  fingers,  and  imposed  silence  on  his  vindic- 
tive passions.  One  said  to  him:  "Your  wife's 
property  cannot  fall  to  the  house  of  D'Herouville 
except  through  the  medium  of  a  male  child  !"  The 
other  reminded  him  that  if  the  countess  should  die, 
her  property  would  be  claimed  by  the  collateral 
branch  of  the  Saint-Savin.  Both  advised  him  to 
leave  to  nature  the  duty  of  removing  the  misbe- 
gotten child,  and  to  await  the  birth  of  a  second  son 
18 


274  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

who  should  be  healthy  and  robust,  so  that  he  might 
snap  his  fingers  at  the  life  of  his  wife  and  his  first- 
born. It  was  no  longer  a  question  of  a  child,  but  of 
vast  domains,  and  his  affection  suddenly  became  as 
powerful  as  his  ambition.  In  his  desire  to  comply 
with  the  custom  of  Normandie,  he  hoped  that  this 
dead-born  child  would  have  all  the  appearance  of  a 
robust  constitution.  The  mother,  who  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  count's  character,  was  even 
more  surprised  than  the  bone-setter,  and  she  re- 
tained an  instinctive  dread,  which  she  sometimes 
manifested  boldly,  for  maternal  courage  had  in- 
creased her  strength  twofold  in  an  instant. 

For  several  days  the  count  assiduously  remained 
in  attendance  upon  his  wife,  and  lavished  attentions 
upon  her  to  which  his  selfish  interest  in  her  condition 
imparted  something  like  affection.  The  countess 
speedily  divined  that  all  these  attentions  were  for 
her  alone.  The  father's  hatred  of  his  son  betrayed 
itself  in  his  most  trivial  acts;  he  always  avoided 
looking  at  him  or  touching  him;  he  would  rise  ab- 
ruptly and  go  out  to  give  orders  when  the  child 
began  to  cry;  in  fact,  he  seemed  to  forgive  him  for 
living,  only  because  he  hoped  to  see  him  die.  Even 
this  dissimulation  cost  the  count  too  much.  On  the 
day  when  he  noticed  that  the  mother's  intelligent 
eye  detected,  although  not  understanding,  the  danger 
which  threatened  her  son,  he  announced  his  purpose 
to  go  away  on  the  day  following  the  mass  in  celebra- 
tion of  the  mother's  recovery,  on  the  pretext  that  he 
must  lead  all  his  forces  to  the  king's  assistance. 


Such  were  the  circumstances  attending  and  pre- 
ceding the  birth  of  Etienne  d'Herouville.  Even 
though  the  count  had  not  had  the  weighty  reason 
for  constantly  desiring  the  death  of  this  unacknowl- 
edged son  that  he  had  already  tried  to  compass  his 
death,  even  though  he  had  imposed  silence  upon 
that  deplorable  impulse  which  leads  a  man  to  perse- 
cute the  being  whom  he  has  already  injured,  even 
though  he  had  not  been  conscious  of  the  obligation, 
most  painful  to  him,  to  feign  affection  for  a  hateful 
abortion,  whom  he  believed  to  be  Chaverny's  son, 
poor  Etienne  would  have  been  the  object  of  his  aver- 
sion none  the  less.  The  misfortune  of  a  sickly,  con- 
sumptive constitution,  aggravated,  perhaps,  by  his 
caress,  was  in  his  eyes  an  ever-flagrant  insult  to 
his  self-esteem  as  a  parent.  If  he  execrated  hand- 
some men,  he  detested  none  the  less  bitterly  those 
weaklings  in  whom  bodily  strength  was  replaced 
by  strength  of  intellect.  To  be  agreeable  to  him  a 
man  must  be  ill-favored,  tall,  powerful,  and  ignorant. 
Etienne,  whose  physical  weakness  seemed  to  doom 
him  to  the  sedentary  pursuit  of  knowledge,  was 
destined,  therefore,  to  find  in  his  father  a  pitiless 
foe.  His  conflict  with  that  colossus  began  in  his 
cradle;  against  so  formidable  an  antagonist  he  had 
no  other  ally  than  his  mother's  heart,  whose  love, 
(275) 


276  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

by  virtue  of  a  pathetic  law  of  nature,  waxed  greater 
with  every  danger  that  threatened  him. 

Plunged  suddenly  into  absolute  solitude  by  the 
count's  abrupt  departure,  Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin 
owed  to  her  child  the  only  semblance  of  happiness 
which  lightened  the  gloom  of  her  life.  This  child, 
whose  birth  was  made  a  subject  of  reproach  because 
of  Chaverny,  she  loved  as  women  love  the  fruit  of 
an  illicit  passion;  she  felt  obliged  to  nurse  him,  but 
was  conscious  of  no  fatigue.  She  refused  to  accept 
any  assistance  from  her  women;  she  dressed  and 
undressed  the  child  herself,  feeling  renewed  pleasure 
in  every  little  attention  he  demanded.  This  con- 
stant occupation,  this  unremitting  attention  to  the 
child's  wants,  the  necessity  of  awaking  at  the  pre- 
cise moment  in  order  to  nurse  him,  were  sources  of 
a  felicity  that  knew  no  bounds.  Happiness  shone 
upon  her  face  when  she  was  attending  to  the  little 
fellow's  needs.  As  Etienne  had  come  prematurely, 
her  stock  of  clothing  was  insufficient;  she  insisted 
upon  making  such  articles  as  were  lacking,  and  she 
made  them,  how  exquisitely  you  know,  O  suspected 
mothers,  who  have  plied  the  needle  for  your  cher- 
ished offspring,  in  darkness  and  in  silence!  With 
every  stitch,  a  memory,  a  wish,  a  thousand  things 
were  worked  into  the  material  like  pretty  patterns. 
All  these  follies  were  repeated  to  the  Comte  d'He- 
rouville,  and  increased  the  fury  of  the  storm  that  had 
already  gathered.  The  days  contained  too  few  hours 
for  the  manifold  occupations  and  minute  precautions 
of  the  nurse;  they  flew  by,  laden  with  secret  joys. 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  277 

The  bone-setter's  prescriptions  were  always  writ- 
ten in  the  countess's  presence;  in  her  son's  behalf 
she  distrusted  both  the  service  of  her  women  and 
the  hands  of  her  male  servants;  she  would  have 
liked  to  be  able  to  go  without  sleep,  so  that  she 
might  be  sure  that  no  one  approached  Etienne  while 
he  slept;  his  cradle  was  always  by  her  side;  in  truth, 
she  kept  suspicion  on  guard  in  that  cradle.  During 
the  count's  absence,  she  ventured  to  send  for  the 
accoucheur,  whose  name  she  had  remembered.  In 
her  eyes,  Beauvouloir  was  a  man  to  whom  she  owed 
an  immense  debt  of  gratitude;  but  she  was  espe- 
cially desirous  to  question  him  concerning  innumer- 
able matters  relating  to  her  son.  Suppose  they 
should  try  to  poison  Etienne,  how  should  she  defeat 
their  attempts?  How  was  she  to  deal  with  his  feeble 
health?  Must  she  nurse  him  very  long?  If  she 
should  die,  would  Beauvouloir  undertake  to  watch 
over  the  poor  child's  health? 

To  these  questions  Beauvouloir,  deeply  moved,  re- 
plied that  he  was  as  fearful  of  poison  for  Etienne  as 
she;  but  that  she  had  nothing  to  fear  in  that  direc- 
tion so  long  as  she  fed  him  with  her  own  milk;  after 
Etienne  was  weaned,  he  advised  her  always  to  taste 
his  food. 

"If,"  added  the  bone-setter,  "Madame  la  Com- 
tesse  observes  anything  strange  on  the  tongue,  a 
sharp,  bitter,  strong,  or  saline  taste,  in  a  word,  any- 
thing unusual,  discard  the  food.  Let  the  child's 
clothes  be  washed  in  your  presence,  and  keep 
the  key  of  the  chest  in  which  they  are  kept. 


278  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

Finally,  whatever  happens,  write  to  me,  and  I  will 
come." 

The  bone-setter's  words  were  written  on  Jeanne's 
heart,  and  she  begged  him  to  look  upon  her  as  being 
entirely  at  his  service;  Beauvouloir  thereupon  told 
her  that  she  held  all  his  hope  of  happiness  in  her 
hands. 

He  proceeded  to  tell  the  countess  in  a  few  words 
how  the  Seigneur  d'Herouville,  in  default  of  nobly- 
born  and  lovely  maidens  at  court  who  would  accept 
his  homage,  had  loved  in  his  youth  a  courtesan  called 
the  Fair  Roman,  who  had  formerly  belonged  to  the 
Cardinal  de  Lorraine.  The  Fair  Roman,  being 
speedily  deserted,  had  come  to  Rouen  to  solicit  the 
count  at  close  quarters  in  behalf  of  a  daughter,  of 
whom  he  absolutely  refused  to  speak,  alleging  her 
beauty  as  an  excuse  for  not  acknowledging  her.  At 
the  death  of  that  woman,  in  utter  destitution,  the 
poor  child,  whose  name  was  Gertrude,  and  who  was 
even  more  beautiful  than  her  mother,  had  been  taken 
by  the  nuns  at  the  convent  of  Sainte-Claire,  whose 
Superior  was  Mademoiselle  de  Saint-Savin,  the 
countess's  aunt.  Having  been  called  in  to  treat 
Gertrude,  he  had  fallen  madly  in  love  with  her. — 
"If  Madame  la  Comtesse,"  he  added,  "  would  deign 
to  espouse  his  cause,  not  only  would  she  repay  all 
that  she  considered  that  she  owed  him,  but  he  would 
deem  himself  indebted  to  her.  In  this  way,  his 
coming  to  the  chateau,  which  might  seem  very  sus- 
picious in  the  count's  eyes,  would  be  justified ;  then 
the  count  would,  sooner  or  later,  become  interested 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  279 

in  so  lovely  a  child,  and  might,  perhaps,  extend  his 
patronage  to  her  indirectly  some  day  by  making  him 
his  physician." 

The  countess,  always  so  fully  in  sympathy  with 
true  love,  promised  to  forward  the  poor  bone-set- 
ter's. She  followed  up  the  affair  so  warmly,  that,  at 
the  time  of  her  second  lying-in,  she  obtained,  as  the 
favor  which  in  those  days  women  were  privileged 
to  ask  in  childbed,  a  dowry  for  Gertrude,  the  lovely 
foundling,  who,  at  about  the  same  time,  instead  of 
becoming  a  nun,  married  Beauvouloir.  This  dowry 
and  the  bone-setter's  savings  enabled  him  to  pur- 
chase Forcalier,  a  pretty  little  estate  near  the  cha- 
teau d'Herouville,  which  was  offered  for  sale  by  the 
heirs. 

Thus  reassured  by  the  worthy  accoucheur,  the 
countess  felt  that  her  life  was  filled  forever  with 
joys  unknown  to  other  mothers.  Surely  all  women 
are  lovely  when  they  hold  their  children  at  their 
breasts,  watching  while  their  cries  grow  fainter 
and  their  infantile  pains  are  soothed  away;  but  one 
could  hardly  find,  even  in  Italian  pictures,  a  more 
touching  scene  than  that  presented  by  the  countess 
when  she  felt  Etienne  drinking  her  milk,  and  her 
blood  thus  giving  life  to  that  poor  threatened  crea- 
ture. Her  face  glowed  with  love,  as  she  gazed  at 
the  dear  little  fellow,  always  fearful  lest  she  should 
detect  some  resemblance  to  Chaverny,  of  whom  she 
had  thought  so  much.  These  thoughts,  mingled  on 
her  brow  with  the  outward  expression  of  her  joy, 
the  gaze  with  which  she  brooded  over  her  son,  her 


280  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

longing  to  transmit  to  him  the  strength  which  she 
felt  in  her  heart,  her  resplendent  hopes,  the  fas- 
cinating grace  of  her  movements,  all  combined  to 
form  a  picture  which  conquered  the  women  in  at- 
tendance upon  her;  the  countess  vanquished  espio- 
nage. 

Soon  these  two  feeble  beings  were  united  by  a 
common  thought,  and  they  could  understand  each 
other  before  language  was  of  any  assistance  to  them. 
When  Etienne  began  to  use  his  eyes  with  the  un- 
trained avidity  characteristic  of  infants,  his  glance 
fell  upon  the  dark  wainscoting  of  the  State  chamber. 
When  his  young  ears  strove  to  distinguish  sounds 
and  understand  the  differences  between  them,  he 
heard  the  monotonous  plashing  of  the  sea  which 
broke  upon  the  cliffs  with  a  movement  as  regular 
as  that  of  a  pendulum.  Thus,  surroundings,  sounds, 
objects,  everything  which  makes  an  impression  on 
the  senses,  prepares  the  understanding,  and  forms  the 
character,  predisposed  him  to  melancholy.  Was  not 
his  mother  destined  to  live  and  die  amid  the  clouds 
of  melancholy?  From  his  birth,  he  might  readily  be- 
lieve that  the  countess  was  the  only  living  creature 
on  earth,  might  look  upon  the  world  as  a  desert,  and 
become  accustomed  to  that  tendency  to  depend  upon 
one's  self  which  impels  us  to  live  alone,  to  seek 
happiness  within  ourselves  by  developing  the  vast 
resources  of  thought.  Was  not  the  countess  doomed 
to  live  her  life  in  solitude  and  to  look  for  happiness 
to  her  son  alone,  who  was  persecuted  even  as  her 
love  was  persecuted? 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  281 

Like  all  children  of  feeble  constitution,  Etienne 
never  departed  from  the  passive  attitude  which  was 
characteristic  of  his  mother — a  touching  resemblance! 
His  organs  were  so  sensitive  that  a  sudden  noise  or 
the  presence  of  a  boisterous  person  threw  him  into  a 
sort  of  fever.  You  would  have  said  that  he  was  one 
of  those  tiny  insects  for  whose  behoof  God  seems  to 
temper  the  violence  of  the  wind  and  the  sun's  heat; 
like  them,  incapable  of  contending  against  the  slight- 
est obstacle,  he  yielded  like  them,  without  resistance 
or  complaint,  at  the  slightest  indication  of  an  aggres- 
sive spirit.  This  angelic  patience  inspired  in  the 
countess  a  profound  sentiment  to  which  she  owed 
the  entire  absence  of  fatigue  as  a  result  of  the  pains- 
taking care  necessitated  by  his  precarious  health. 

She  thanked  God  for  placing  Etienne,  like  a  mul- 
titude of  mortals,  in  the  bosom  of  the  sphere  of  peace 
and  silence,  the  only  sphere  in  which  he  could  be 
successfully  reared.  Often  his  mother's  hands,  at 
once  so  strong  and  so  gentle  in  their  treatment  of 
him,  lifted  him  to  the  lofty  regions  of  the  ogive 
windows.  From  there  his  eyes,  blue  like  his 
mother's,  seemed  to  study  the  magnificence  of  the 
ocean.  They  would  both  remain  for  hours  at  a  time 
gazing  at  that  vast,  limitless  expanse  of  water,  som- 
bre and  resplendent,  dumb  and  resonant  by  turns. 
These  long  meditations  were  to  Etienne  a  secret 
apprenticeship  to  sorrow.  Then,  his  mother's  eyes 
were  almost  always  wet  with  tears,  and,  during 
those  painful  musings  of  the  soul,  Etienne's  youthful 
features  resembled  a  slender  net  drawn  asunder  by 


282  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

a  too  great  weight.  Ere  long  his  precocious  insight 
into  unhappiness  revealed  to  him  the  power  that  his 
play  exerted  upon  the  countess;  he  tried  to  divert 
her  by  the  same  caresses  to  which  she  resorted  to 
soothe  his  sufferings.  Nor  did  his  mischievous  little 
hands,  his  little  lisping  words,  his  intelligent  laugh- 
ter, ever  fail  to  dissipate  his  mother's  reveries.  If 
he  were  fatigued,  his  instinctive  delicacy  of  feeling 
prevented  him  from  complaining. 

"Poor,  dear  sensitive  creature!"  the  countess 
cried,  as  she  watched  him,  sound  asleep  from  weari- 
ness, after  a  frolic  which  had  put  to  flight  one  of  her 
most  painful  reminiscences,  "  where  could  you  live? 
Who  will  ever  understand  you,  whose  tender  heart 
will  be  wounded  by  a  too  stern  glance?  who,  like 
your  sad  mother,  will  deem  a  sweet  smile  more 
precious  than  all  the  good  things  of  earth?  Mother's 
beloved  angel,  who  will  ever  love  you  in  this  world? 
Who  will  divine  the  treasures  concealed  beneath  thy 
frail  envelope?  No  one.  Like  me,  you  will  be  alone 
on  earth.  God  keep  you  from  forming,  as  I  did,  an 
attachment  favored  by  God  but  frowned  upon  by 
man!" 

She  sighed,  she  wept.  The  graceful  attitude  of 
her  son,  who  lay  asleep  on  her  knee,  made  her  smile 
sadly:  she  gazed  long  at  him,  drinking  her  fill  of 
the  unspeakable  bliss  which  is  a  secret  between  a 
mother  and  God.  As  she  had  discovered  that  her 
voice,  blending  with  the  strains  of  the  mandolin, 
delighted  her  son,  she  would  sing  to  him  the  pretty 
ballads  of  that  period,  and  fancy  that  she  could  see 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  283 

upon  his  little  lips,  smeared  with  her  milk,  the  smile 
with  which  Georges  de  Chaverny  used  to  thank  her 
when  she  laid  aside  her  rebeck.  She  blamed  herself 
for  dwelling  thus  upon  the  past,  but  she  continued  to 
dwell  upon  it  none  the  less.  The  child,  her  con- 
federate in  these  dreams,  smiled  at  the  self-same 
airs  that  Chaverny  loved. 

At  eighteen  months,  Etienne  was  still  so  feeble 
that  the  countess  had  not  yet  ventured  out-of-doors; 
but  the  faint  coloring  that  played  over  his  sallow 
cheeks,  as  if  the  palest  petal  of  an  eglantine  had 
been  wafted  thither  by  the  wind,  gave  evidence  of 
life  and  health.  Just  as  she  was  beginning  to  believe 
in  the  bone-setter's  prophecies  and  was  congratulat- 
ing herself  on  her  success,  during  the  count's  ab- 
sence, in  surrounding  her  son  with  the  strictest 
precautions,  in  order  to  shelter  him  from  all  danger, 
letters  written  by  her  husband's  secretary  announced 
his  speedy  return.  One  morning,  the  countess, 
abandoning  herself  to  the  insane  delight  which  pos- 
sesses all  mothers  when  they  see  their  first  child 
walk  for  the  first  time,  was  playing  with  Etienne  at 
one  of  those  games  which  are  as  indescribable  as 
the  charm  of  memory.  Suddenly  she  heard  the  floor 
creak  under  a  heavy  step.  She  had  hardly  time  to 
rise,  with  an  involuntary  gesture  of  astonishment, 
when  she  found  herself  in  the  count's  presence. 
She  uttered  an  exclamation,  but  instantly  tried  to 
atone  for  that  involuntary  offence  by  walking  to  meet 
the  count  and  submissively  offering  her  brow  to  be 
kissed. 


284  THE  ACCURSED    CHILD 

"Why  did  you  not  notify  me  of  your  coming?" 
she  said. 

"  Had  I  done  so,"  replied  the  count,  interrupting 
her,  "your  welcome  would  have  been  more  cordial, 
but  less  frank." 

He  looked  at  the  child ;  the  state  of  health  in 
which  he  found  him  drew  from  him  at  first  a  gesture 
of  surprise  blended  with  rage;  but  he  repressed  his 
wrath,  and  began  to  smile. 

"  I  bring  you  good  news,"  he  said.  "  I  am  made 
governor  of  Champagne,  and  I  have  the  king's  prom- 
ise that  I  shall  be  a  duke  and  a  peer.  Moreover, 
we  have  inherited  the  property  of  a  kinsman:  that 
infernal  Huguenot,  Chaverny,  is  dead." 

The  countess  turned  pale,  and  sank  upon  a  chair. 
She  divined  the  secret  of  the  sinister  satisfaction 
depicted  on  her  husband's  features,  and  apparently 
heightened  by  the  sight  of  Etienne. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said  in  a  trembling  voice,  "you 
are  aware  that  I  have  loved  my  cousin  Chaverny  for 
many  years.  You  will  answer  to  God  for  the  sorrow 
you  cause  me." 

At  these  words,  the  count's  eyes  gleamed ;  his  lips 
trembled,  and  he  could  not  utter  a  syllable,  so  con- 
vulsed was  he  by  passion;  he  threw  his  dagger  on 
the  table  with  such  violence  that  the  steel  rang  like 
a  peal  of  thunder. 

"  Hark  ye,"  he  cried  in  his  great  voice,  "and  re- 
member my  words;  I  never  wish  to  see  or  hear  the 
little  monster  you  have  in  your  arms,  for  he  is 
your  child,  not  mine;  has  he  a  single  one  of  my 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  285 

features?  Tete-Dieu!  keep  him  out  of  my  sight, 
or—" 

"Merciful  Heaven,"  cried  the  countess,  "protect 
us!" 

"Silence!"  roared  the  colossus.  "If  you  don't 
wish  me  to  come  in  collision  with  him,  look  to  it  that 
I  never  find  him  in  my  path." 

"Swear  to  me,  then,"  rejoined  the  countess, 
feeling  emboldened  to  do  battle  with  her  tyrant, 
"  swear  to  me  that  you  will  not  threaten  his  life  if 
you  do  not  see  him.  Can  I  rely  upon  your  word  as 
a  nobleman?" 

"  What  does  this  mean?"  demanded  the  count. 

"Then  kill  us  both  to-day!"  she  cried,  throwing 
herself  on  her  knees  and  straining  her  child  to  her 
breast. 

"  Rise,  madame!  I  pledge  my  faith  as  a  nobleman 
to  take  no  steps  against  the  life  of  yonder  misbe- 
gotten imp,  provided  that  he  lives  among  the  rocks 
on  the  shore  below  the  chateau;  I  give  him  the 
fisherman's  house  for  his  dwelling  and  the  beach 
for  his  domain;  but,  woe  to  him,  if  I  ever  find  him 
beyond  those  limits!" 

The  countess  began  to  weep  bitterly. 

"  Look  at  him,"  she  said.     "  He  is  your  son." 

"Madame!" 

At  that  word,  the  terrified  mother  hurried  from  the 
room  with  her  child,  whose  heart  beat  like  that  of 
a  little  bird  surprised  in  its  nest  by  a  shepherd. 
Whether  it  be  that  innocence  has  a  fascination  which 
the  most  hardened  men  cannot  resist,  or  that  the 


286  THE  ACCURSED    CHILD 

count  blamed  himself  for  his  violence,  and  feared 
lest  he  should  cause  a  too  violent  despair  in  a  crea- 
ture as  necessary  to  his  pleasures  as  to  his  schemes, 
his  voice  had  become  as  soft  as  it  was  possible  for  it 
to  be  when  his  wife  returned. 

"  Jeanne,  my  love,"  he  said,  "  do  not  bear  me  a 
grudge,  but  give  me  your  hand.  A  man  doesn't 
know  how  to  act  with  you  women.  I  bring  you  new 
honors,  increased  wealth,  tete-Dieu!  and  you  receive 
me  like  a  marauder  who  comes  upon  a  party  of 
rustics.  My  new  government  will  necessitate  long 
absences  from  home,  until  I  can  exchange  it  for  the 
government  of  Normandie;  at  least,  treat  me  kindly 
while  I  am  here,  my  love." 

The  countess  understood  the  meaning  of  these 
words,  and  their  affected  gentleness  did  not  deceive 
her. 

"  I  know  my  duty,"  she  replied  in  a  melancholy 
tone  which  her  husband  took  as  an  indication  of 
affection. 

The  timid  creature  was  too  pure,  too  noble,  to  try, 
as  some  shrewd  women  would  have  done,  to  govern 
the  count  by  a  skilfully  devised  course  of  conduct 
toward  him,  a  species  of  prostitution  which  leaves  a 
stain  upon  noble  hearts.  She  silently  left  the  room, 
to  soothe  her  despair  by  taking  Etienne  to  walk. 

"Tete-Dieu!  shall  I  never  win  her  love?"  cried  the 
count,  detecting  a  tear  in  his  wife's  eyes  just  as  she 
turned  away. 

The  sentiment  of  maternity,  being  incessantly 
threatened,  became  in  the  countess  a  passion  which 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  287 

attained  the  violence  that  women  display  in  their 
guilty  passions.  By  a  sort  of  witchcraft,  the  secret 
of  which  lies  in  every  mother's  heart,  and  which 
was  unusually  powerful  between  the  countess  and 
her  son,  she  succeeded  in  making  him  realize  the 
danger  which  threatened  him  every  moment,  and 
taught  him  to  dread  his  father's  approach.  The 
terrible  scenes  of  which  Etienne  had  been  a  witness 
had  made  so  deep  an  impression  on  his  memory  that 
it  had  caused  a  sort  of  disease.  He  was  able,  finally, 
to  foresee  the  count's  presence  with  such  certainty 
that  if  one  of  those  smiles  whose  imperceptible 
signs  are  clear  as  day  to  a  mother's  eyes  lighted  up 
his  face  at  the  moment  when  his  imperfect  organs, 
already  developed  by  fear,  announced  his  father's 
step  in  the  distance,  his  features  would  contract, 
and  the  mother's  ear  was  no  more  unerring  than  the 
son's  instinct.  As  he  grew  older,  his  faculty  born 
of  terror  increased  to  such  a  degree,  that,  like  the 
North  American  savage,  Etienne  could  distinguish  his 
father's  step  or  hear  his  voice  at  an  extraordinary 
distance,  and  could  always  announce  his  coming. 
The  knowledge  that  the  terror  which  her  husband 
inspired  in  her  was  shared  so  soon  by  her  child 
made  him  more  dear  to  her;  and  their  union  be- 
came so  strong  that,  like  two  flowers  attached  to 
the  same  twig,  they  bent  before  the  same  wind  and 
were  raised  again  by  the  same  hope.  Their  lives  were 
identical. 

At  the  time  of  the  count's  departure,  Jeanne  was 
entering  upon  a  second  pregnancy.   She  was  brought 


288  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

to  bed  this  time  at  the  end  of  the  term  which  popular 
prejudice  dictates,  and  brought  into  the  world,  not 
without  incredible  suffering,  a  sturdy  boy,  who,  after 
a  few  months,  was  such  a  perfect  reproduction  of  his 
father  that  the  count's  detestation  of  the  elder  be- 
came still  more  intense.  In  order  to  save  the  life  of 
her  beloved  child,  the  countess  assented  to  all  the 
plans  formed  by  her  husband  for  the  happiness  and 
wealth  of  his  second  son.  Etienne,  destined  for  a 
cardinalship,  must  enter  the  priesthood  in  order  to 
leave  to  Maximilien  the  property  and  titles  of  the 
house  of  D'Herouville.  At  this  price,  the  poor 
mother  assured  the  safety  of  her  accursed  child. 

Never  were  two  brothers  more  unlike  than  Etienne 
and  Maximilien.  The  younger  exhibited  from  his 
birth  a  liking  for  noise,  for  violent  exercise,  and  for 
fighting;  wherefore  the  count  conceived  as  great  a 
love  for  him  as  the  countess  had  for  Etienne.  By  a 
sort  of  tacit  compact,  not  unnatural  under  the  circum- 
stances, each  of  them  took  sole  charge  of  his  or  her 
favorite  child.  The  duke — about  this  time  Henri  IV. 
rewarded  the  Seigneur  d'Herouville's  eminent  ser- 
vices— the  duke  did  not  wish,  he  said,  to  fatigue  his 
wife,  so  he  engaged  as  Maximilien's  nurse  a  buxom 
matron  from  Bayeux,  selected  by  Beauvouloir.  To 
Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin's  great  joy,  he  was  as  sus- 
picious of  her  mind  as  of  her  milk,  and  determined 
to  mould  his  son  to  suit  himself.  He  brought  up 
Maximilien  in  holy  horror  of  books  and  letters;  he 
trained  him  in  the  mechanical  branches  of  the  mili- 
tary art,  he  taught  him  to  ride  at  an  early  age,  and 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  289 

to  fire  an  arquebus  and  handle  a  dagger.  When  his 
son  grew  to  be  a  tall  stripling,  he  took  him  out  to 
hunt,  so  that  he  might  contract  that  savagery  of 
speech,  that  roughness  of  manner,  that  strength  of 
body,  that  virility  of  expression  and  of  voice,  which, 
in  his  eyes,  made  an  accomplished  man.  At  twelve 
years,  the  little  nobleman  was  an  unlicked  lion's 
whelp,  at  least  as  much  dreaded  as  his  father;  with 
license  to  tyrannize  over  everybody,  and  availing 
himself  thereof  to  the  full. 

Etienne  lived  in  the  house  on  the  shore  which  his 
father  had  given  him,  and  which  the  duchess  so  fur- 
nished that  he  was  supplied  with  some  of  the  means 
of  enjoyment  to  which  he  was  entitled.  The  duchess 
passed  the  greater  part  of  the  day  there.  The  mother 
and  son  together  wandered  over  the  rocks  and  along 
the  beach;  she  pointed  out  to  Etienne  the  limits  of 
his  little  domain  of  sand,  shells,  moss,  and  stones; 
the  profound  terror  which  assailed  her  when  he 
stepped  outside  the  territory  allotted  to  him  made 
him  understand  that  death  lay  in  wait  for  him  there. 
Etienne  trembled  for  his  mother  before  he  trembled 
for  himself;  ere  long  the  mere  name  of  the  Due 
d'Herouville  disturbed  him  so  that  all  his  energy 
vanished,  and  he  was  reduced  to  the  state  of  utter 
helplessness  which  causes  a  girl  to  fall  on  her  knees 
before  a  tiger.  If  he  spied  that  redoubtable  giant 
in  the  distance,  or  if  he  heard  his  voice,  the  same 
painful  sensation  he  had  felt  long  before  when  he 
was  cursed,  froze  the  blood  in  his  veins.  And  so, 
like  the  Laplander  who  dies  when  he  wanders  away 
19 


290  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

from  his  perpetual  snows,  he  made  himself  a  delight- 
ful home  of  his  cabin  and  his  cliffs;  if  he  passed 
the  frontier,  he  was  conscious  of  an  indefinable  dis- 
comfort. 

Realizing  that  her  poor  child  could  find  happiness 
only  in  a  humble  and  silent  sphere,  the  duchess,  at 
first,  had  less  regret  for  the  destiny  imposed  upon 
him;  she  availed  herself  of  the  calling  that  was 
forced  upon  him,  to  lay  out  a  noble  life  for  him  by 
filling  his  solitude  with  the  noble  search  for  knowl- 
edge, and  summoned  Pierre  de  Sebonde  to  the 
chateau  to  act  as  tutor  to  the  future  Cardinal  d'He- 
rouville.  Although  her  son  was  destined  to  the  ton- 
sure, Jeanne  did  not  wish  that  his  education  should 
have  too  strong  a  flavor  of  the  priesthood,  and  she 
secularized  it  by  her  own  intervention.  Beauvouloir 
was  employed  to  initiate  Etienne  in  the  mysteries 
of  the  natural  sciences.  The  duchess,  who  kept  an 
eye  upon  his  studies  herself,  in  order  to  apportion 
them  to  his  strength,  afforded  him  needed  recrea- 
tion by  teaching  him  Italian,  and  revealed  to  him 
insensibly  the  poetic  treasures  of  that  tongue.  While 
the  duke  was  leading  Maximilien  in  pursuit  of  the 
wild  boar,  at  the  risk  of  grievous  wounds,  Jeanne 
wandered  with  Etienne  in  Petrarch's  Milky  Way,  or 
in  the  gigantic  labyrinth  of  the  Di-vina  Commedia. 
Nature,  by  way  of  recompense  for  his  infirmities, 
had  endowed  Etienne  with  such  a  melodious  voice 
that  it  was  difficult  to  resist  the  pleasure  of  listening 
to  him;  his  mother  was  his  instructress  in  music. 
Songs  of  love  and  sadness,  accompanied  by  the 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  291 

strains  of  a  mandolin,  were  a  favorite  recreation 
which  the  mother  held  out  as  a  reward  for  the  per- 
formance of  some  task  set  by  Abbe  de  Sebonde. 
Etienne  listened  to  his  mother  with  a  passionate  ad- 
miration which  she  had  never  seen  in  any  eyes  but 
Chaverny's.  The  first  time  that  the  poor  woman 
was  reminded  of  her  girlhood  by  her  child's  persis- 
tent gaze,  she  covered  him  with  wild  kisses.  She 
blushed  when  Etienne  asked  her  why  it  was  that 
she  seemed  to  love  him  more  dearly  at  that  moment, 
then  answered  that  she  loved  him  more  every  hour. 
Soon  she  found  in  the  painstaking  care  demanded  by 
the  education  of  his  mind  and  the  cultivation  of  his 
intellect  the  same  pleasures  that  she  had  tasted  in 
nourishing  and  rearing  her  child's  body.  Although 
mothers  do  not  always  grow  with  their  sons,  the 
duchess  was  one  of  those  who  carry  into  maternity 
the  humble  adoration  of  love;  she  could  caress  and 
judge;  she  staked  her  self-esteem  upon  making 
Etienne  superior  to  herself  in  everything,  and  not 
upon  domineering  over  him;  perhaps  she  was  con- 
scious of  being  so  great  in  her  inexhaustible  affec- 
tion, that  she  had  no  fear  of  decreasing  in  stature. 
Hearts  without  affection  are  those  that  love  domina- 
tion, but  genuine  sentiment  cherishes  self-abnegation, 
that  sublime  virtue  of  strength.  When  Etienne  failed 
at  first  to  understand  some  demonstration,  a  text,  or 
a  theorem,  the  poor  mother,  who  was  present  at  the 
lessons,  would  seem  to  be  trying  to  infuse  knowl- 
edge into  him,  as,  in  the  old  days,  at  the  slightest 
cry,  she  poured  out  milk  for  him  in  streams.  And 


2Q2  THE  ACCURSED    CHILD 

how  the  duchess's  eyes  shone  with  joy  when  Etienne 
grasped  the  meaning  of  things  and  made  it  his  own! 
She  showed,  as  Pierre  de  Sebonde  said,  that  the 
mother  is  a  twofold  being  whose  sentiments  always 
embrace  two  lives. 

Thus  the  duchess  magnified  the  natural  sentiment 
which  binds  a  son  to  his  mother  by  the  innumerable 
manifestations  of  a  reanimated  love.  On  account  of 
Etienne's  delicate  health,  she  continued  for  several 
years  to  take  care  of  him  as  if  he  were  still  a  child  ; 
she  dressed  him  and  put  him  to  bed ;  she  alone 
combed  and  brushed,  curled  and  perfumed  her  son's 
hair.  This  toilet  was  one  long  caress;  she  kissed 
that  dear  head  every  time  that  she  lightly  passed 
the  comb  through  it.  As  women  like  to  play  the 
mother's  part  with  their  lovers  by  performing  some 
domestic  service  for  them,  so  this  mother  made  of  her 
son  a  simulacrum  of  a  lover;  she  detected  in  him  a 
vague  resemblance  to  the  beloved  cousin  beyond  the 
grave.  Etienne  was  like  Georges's  ghost,  vaguely 
seen  in  the  depths  of  a  magic  mirror;  she  said  to 
herself  that  he  was  more  nobleman  than  churchman. 

"  If  some  woman  with  a  heart  as  loving  as  mine 
would  infuse  the  life  of  love  into  his  veins,  he  might 
be  very  happy!"  she  often  thought. 

But  the  weighty  interests  which  demanded  that 
Etienne's  head  should  be  shaven  would  recur  to  her 
memory,  and  she  would  drop  a  tear  as  she  kissed 
the  locks  that  the  scissors  of  the  Church  were  des- 
tined to  shear.  Notwithstanding  the  unjust  compact 
made  with  the  duke,  she  never  saw  Etienne  either  as 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  293 

priest  or  as  cardinal  through  the  holes  which  her 
maternal  eye  pierced  in  the  dense  darkness  of  the 
future.  The  father's  entire  forgetfulness  enabled 
her  to  postpone  her  son's  entrance  into  the  Church. 

"  It  will  never  be  too  late!"  she  would  say  to 
herself. 

Then,  without  avowing  to  herself  a  thought  that 
was  buried  in  her  heart,  she  trained  Etienne  in  the 
graceful  manners  of  the  courtiers,  she  wished  him 
to  be  as  gentle  and  refined  as  Georges  de  Chaverny. 
Being  reduced  to  a  very  slender  pittance  by  the  ambi- 
tion of  the  duke,  who  managed  the  property  of  her 
family  and  employed  all  the  revenues  for  his  own 
advancement  or  for  the  maintenance  of  his  estab- 
lishment, she  dressed  in  the  simplest  fashion,  and 
spent  nothing  at  all  for  herself,  in  order  to  supply 
her  son  with  velvet  cloaks,  high  boots  with  lace  tops, 
and  slashed  doublets  of  fine  stuffs.  Her  personal 
deprivations  afforded  her  the  delight  which  always 
accompanies  the  sacrifices  we  conceal  from  those 
who  are  dear  to  us.  As  she  embroidered  a  collar,  she 
hugged  herself  in  secret  at  the  thought  of  the  day 
when  it  would  adorn  her  son's  neck.  She  alone  had 
charge  of  Etienne's  clothes,  his  linen,  his  perfumes, 
and  his  toilet;  she  adorned  her  own  person  only 
for  him,  for  she  loved  to  have  him  think  her  beauti- 
ful. All  this  solicitude,  accompanied  by  a  sentiment 
which  penetrated  her  son's  flesh  and  revivified  it, 
had  its  reward.  One  day,  Beauvouloir,  that  divine 
man  who  by  his  lessons  had  made  himself  dear  to 
the  accursed  child,  and  with  whose  services  Etienne 


294  THE  ACCURSED    CHILD 

was  not  unacquainted;  that  physician  whose  anxious 
expression  made  the  duchess  tremble  whenever  he 
examined  her  frail  idol,  declared  that  Etienne  might 
live  many  years  if  his  delicate  frame  were  not  sud- 
denly agitated  by  some  emotion. 


At  this  time,  Etienne  was  sixteen  years  of  age. 
He  had  reached  the  height  of  five  feet,  and  was  not 
likely  to  grow  any  taller;  but  Georges  de  Chaverny 
was  of  medium  height.  Through  his  skin,  as  trans- 
parent and  satiny  as  any  girl's,  the  faintest  tracery 
of  his  blue  veins  could  be  seen.  His  complexion 
was  of  the  whiteness  of  porcelain.  His  light-blue 
eyes,  endowed  with  an  ineffable  sweetness,  implored 
the  protection  of  men  and  women;  the  alluring 
suavity  of  prayer  shone  in  his  glance  and  fasci- 
nated one,  before  the  melodious  tones  of  his  voice 
completed  the  charm.  The  most  genuine  modesty 
was  revealed  in  every  feature.  His  long  chestnut 
hair,  glossy  and  fine,  and  curly  at  the  ends,  was 
parted  over  his  forehead.  His  pale,  hollow  cheeks, 
his  white  brow,  traversed  by  a  few  wrinkles,  be- 
trayed a  life-long  suffering  painful  to  witness.  His 
mouth,  which  curved  gracefully,  and  was  well  fur- 
nished with  white  teeth,  wore  that  species  of  smile 
which  becomes  fixed  upon  the  lips  of  the  dying. 
His  hands,  as  white  as  a  woman's,  were  of  a  re- 
markably beautiful  shape.  His  long  meditations 
had  caused  him  to  acquire  the  habit  of  bending  his 
head  forward,  like  a  withered  plant,  and  the  attitude 
was  becoming  to  him:  it  was  like  the  last  touch 
which  an  artist  gives  to  a  portrait  to  bring  out  the 
whole  of  his  thought.  You  would  have  said  that  it 
(295) 


296  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

was  the  head  of  a  sick  girl  on  the  body  of  a  frail, 
misshapen  man. 

The  studious  poesy  whose  teeming  meditations 
lead  us  to  traverse,  like  a  botanist,  the  vast  fields  of 
thought,  the  fruitful  comparison  of  human  ideas,  the 
mental  exaltation  caused  by  the  perfect  comprehen- 
sion of  the  works  of  genius,  had  become  the  placid 
and  inexhaustible  delights  of  his  dreamy  and  solitary 
life.  The  flowers,  fascinating  creations,  whose  des- 
tiny bore  so  great  a  resemblance  to  his,  had  all  his 
love.  Happy  to  discover  in  her  own  son  harmless 
passions  which  protected  him  from  the  rude  touch  of 
social  life,  which  he  could  no  more  have  resisted  than 
the  prettiest  dorado  in  the  ocean  could  resist  a  single 
sunbeam  on  the  shore,  the  countess  had  encouraged 
Etienne's  taste  by  bringing  him  Spanish  romanceros, 
Italian  motets,  books,  sonnets,  and  poems.  Cardinal 
d'Herouville's  library  was  Etienne's  heritage,  and 
reading  was  destined  to  fill  his  life.  Every  morning 
the  boy  found  his  solitude  peopled  with  pretty  plants 
rich  in  coloring  and  sweet-smelling.  Thus  his  read- 
ing, in  which  his  feeble  health  did  not  allow  him  to 
indulge  long  at  one  time,  and  his  exercise  among  the 
rocks,  were  interrupted  by  fits  of  ingenious  medita- 
tion, in  which  he  would  remain  for  whole  hours 
seated  before  his  laughing  flowers,  his  sweet  play- 
fellows, or  lying  in  the  hollow  of  a  rock  before  some 
alga  or  moss  or  marine  grass,  studying  its  mysteries. 
He  would  seek  a  rhyme  in  the  bosom  of  a  fragrant 
blossom,  as  the  bee  steals  its  honey  there.  He  often 
admired,  aimlessly  and  without  trying  to  explain  his 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  297 

interest,  the  delicate  lines  drawn  upon  the  petals  in 
dark  colors,  the  delicacy  of  the  rich  tunics  of  gold  or 
azure,  green  or  violet,  the  innumerable  lovely  shapes 
of  calyx  and  leaf,  and  their  smooth  or  velvety  sur- 
faces, which  were  torn  asunder,  like  his  heart,  by 
the  slightest  touch.  Later,  a  thinker  no  less  than 
a  poet,  he  was  to  discover  the  explanation  of  these 
innumerable  variations  of  a  single  nature,  by  dis- 
cerning therein  an  indication  of  precious  faculties; 
for  from  day  to  day  he  made  rapid  progress  in  the 
interpretation  of  the  divine  Word,  which  is  written 
upon  everything  on  this  earth.  This  persistent  and 
secret  investigation  of  the  occult  world  imparted  to 
his  life  the  apparent  somnolence  of  meditative  gen- 
iuses. Etienne  would  lie  for  whole  days,  stretched 
out  on  the  sand,  perfectly  happy,  a  poet  without  his 
own  knowledge.  The  sudden  passing  of  a  golden  in- 
sect, the  reflection  of  the  sun  in  the  ocean,  the  shim- 
mering of  the  vast,  limpid  mirror  of  water,  a  shell,  a 
sea-anemone,  everything  was  a  source  of  pleasurable 
excitement  to  that  ingenuous  soul.  To  see  his  mother 
coming,  to  hear  the  rustling  of  her  dress,  to  wait  for 
her,  to  kiss  her,  to  speak  to  her,  to  listen  to  her, 
caused  him  such  keen  emotion  that  often  a  trifling 
delay  or  the  slightest  apprehension  would  throw  him 
into  a  burning  fever.  There  was  but  one  soul  in  his 
body,  and,  in  order  that  that  feeble  and  always 
sickly  body  should  not  be  destroyed  by  the  intense 
emotions  of  that  soul,  silence,  caresses,  a  placid 
natural  environment,  and  the  love  of  a  woman 
were  most  essential.  For  the  moment,  his  mother 


298  THE   ACCURSED   CHILD 

lavished  love  and  caresses  upon  him;  the  cliffs  were 
silent;  flowers  and  books  gave  charm  to  his  solitude; 
in  fine,  his  little  kingdom  of  sand  and  shells,  of  algae 
and  verdure,  seemed  to  him  a  world  that  was  always 
fresh  and  new. 

Etienne  had  all  the  benefits  of  that  physical  life, 
so  profoundly  innocent;  of  that  mental  life,  so  poetic 
and  of  such  wide  range.  A  child  in  form,  a  man  in 
intellect,  he  was  equally  angelic  in  both  aspects. 
By  virtue  of  his  mother's  determination,  his  studies 
had  transported  his  emotions  into  the  region  of  ideas. 
The  action  of  his  life,  therefore,  took  place  in  the 
moral  world,  far  from  the  social  world  which  might 
have  killed  him  or  caused  him  suffering.  He  lived 
by  the  soul  and  the  intellect.  After  he  had  grasped 
human  thoughts  by  reading,  he  raised  himself  to  the 
level  of  the  thoughts  which  set  matter  in  motion,  he 
felt  thoughts  hovering  in  the  air,  he  read  them  written 
in  the  sky.  In  a  word,  he  ascended  early  in  life  the 
ethereal  peak  where  the  delicate  food  suited  to  his 
soul  was  to  be  found,  intoxicating  food,  which,  how- 
ever, predestined  him  to  unhappiness  on  the  day 
when  these  accumulated  treasures  should  be  added 
to  the  riches  with  which  a  sudden  passion  fills  the 
heart.  But  if  Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin  dreaded  such 
a  storm,  she  speedily  consoled  herself  by  a  thought 
inspired  by  her  son's  melancholy  destiny;  for  the 
poor  mother  could  conceive  of  no  other  remedy  for 
one  calamity  than  a  lesser  calamity;  thus  all  her 
pleasures  were  full  of  bitterness. 

"  He  will  be  a  cardinal,"  she  said  to  herself,  "he 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  299 

will  live  by  love  of  the  arts,  of  which  he  will  become 
the  patron.  He  will  love  art  instead  of  loving  a 
woman,  and  art  will  never  betray  him." 

Thus  the  joys  of  this  doting  mother  were  con- 
stantly darkened  by  gloomy  thoughts,  born  of 
Etienne's  abnormal  position  in  the  bosom  of  his 
family.  The  two  brothers  had  passed  the  ado- 
lescent age  without  knowing  each  other,  without 
ever  seeing  each  other,  without  any  knowledge 
of  each  other's  existence.  The  duchess  had  long 
hoped  for  an  opportunity,  during  one  of  her  hus- 
band's absences,  to  bind  the  brothers  together  by 
some  solemn  scene  in  which  she  would  envelop 
them  both  in  her  love.  She  flattered  herself  that 
she  could  arouse  Maximilien's  interest  in  Etienne  by 
pointing  out  to  him  how  much  love  and  affection  he 
owed  to  his  sickly  elder  brother  in  return  for  the 
sacrifices  which  had  been  forced  upon  him,  and  to 
which  he  would  always  adhere,  although  he  had 
made  them  under  duress.  This  long-cherished 
hope  had  vanished.  Now,  far  from  wishing  to 
bring  the  brothers  together,  she  dreaded  a  meeting 
between  Etienne  and  Maximilien  more  than  one  be- 
tween Etienne  and  his  father.  Maximilien,  who 
believed  in  nothing  good,  would  have  been  afraid 
that  Etienne  would  some  day  reassert  his  unac- 
knowledged rights,  and  he  would  have  tossed  him  into 
the  sea  with  a  stone  around  his  neck.  Never  had  a 
son  less  respect  for  his  mother  than  he.  As  soon  as 
he  was  able  to  think,  he  had  noticed  how  little  re- 
gard the  duke  had  for  his  wife.  Although  the  old 


300  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

governor  still  retained  some  show  of  decency  in  his 
manner  toward  the  duchess,  Maximilien,  over  whom 
his  father  exercised  little  restraint,  wounded  her  in 
innumerable  ways.  Bertrand  was  always  on  guard 
to  prevent  Maximilien  from  catching  a  glimpse  of 
Etienne,  whose  very  birth  indeed  was  carefully 
concealed.  All  the  servants  of  the  chateau  cor- 
dially detested  the  Marquis  de  Saint-Sever,  by 
which  name  Maximilien  was  known,  and  they  who 
knew  of  the  elder  brother's  existence  looked  upon 
him  as  an  avenger  whom  God  held  in  reserve. 
Etienne's  future  was  uncertain,  therefore;  perhaps 
he  would  be  persecuted  by  his  brother! 

The  poor  duchess  had  no  relations  to  whom  she 
could  entrust  the  life  and  interests  of  her  beloved 
child ;  would  not  Etienne  blame  his  mother,  if,  per- 
chance, under  the  Roman  purple,  he  should  aspire 
to  be  a  father  as  she  had  been  a  mother?  Such 
thoughts  as  these,  and  her  melancholy  life  overflow- 
ing with  secret  sorrows,  were  like  a  long  illness 
tempered  by  a  pleasant  diet.  Her  heart  demanded 
the  most  skilful  handling,  and  those  who  surrounded 
her  were  painfully  inexpert  in  the  art  of  gentleness. 
What  mother's  heart  would  not  have  been  torn 
incessantly  to  see  her  oldest  son,  a  man  of  heart 
and  brain  in  whom  a  noble  genius  had  made  itself 
manifest,  deprived  of  his  rights;  while  the  younger, 
who  was  a  do-no-good,  entirely  without  talent,  even 
in  the  act  of  war,  was  chosen  to  wear  the  ducal 
crown  and  to  perpetuate  the  family?  The  house  of 
D'Herouville  denied  its  most  glorious  scion.  Jeanne 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  301 

de  Saint-Savin  was  incapable  of  cursing,  she  could 
only  bless  and  weep;  but  she  often  raised  her  eyes 
to  Heaven  as  if  to  ask  the  reason  of  this  strange 
decree.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  when  she  reflected 
that  at  her  death  her  son  would  be  altogether  an 
orphan,  and  would  be  without  shelter  from  the  brutal 
treatment  of  a  brother  without  faith  or  law. 

Such  a  multitude  of  repressed  emotions,  an  un- 
forgotten  first  love,  a  world  of  unappreciated  sor- 
rows,— for  she  concealed  her  bitterest  suffering  from 
her  beloved  child, — her  pleasures  never  unalloyed, 
her  incessant  disappointments,  had  impaired  the 
vital  principle  and  developed  in  her  a  languishing 
disease  which,  far  from  being  diminished,  acquired 
fresh  force  every  day.  In  due  time,  a  last  blow 
hastened  the  duchess's  decline:  she  tried  to  reason 
with  the  duke  concerning  Maximilien's  education, 
and  was  repulsed ;  she  could  do  nothing  to  coun- 
teract the  detestable  seed  that  was  germinating 
in  that  child's  mind.  She  began  to  fade  so  per- 
ceptibly that  it  became  necessary  to  promote  Beau- 
vouloir  to  the  post  of  physician  to  the  family  of 
D'Herouville,  and  of  the  household  of  the  governor 
of  Normandie.  The  former  bone-setter  took  up  his 
residence  at  the  chateau.  In  those  days,  such  posts 
were  bestowed  upon  scholars,  who  enjoyed  therein 
the  necessary  leisure  for  carrying  on  their  investiga- 
tions, and  the  remuneration  indispensable  to  their 
life  of  study.  Beauvouloir  had  long  aspired  to  the 
position,  for  his  learning  and  his  wealth  had  pro- 
cured him  many  inveterate  enemies.  Despite  the 


302  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

protection  of  a  great  family  to  whom  he  had  been 
useful  in  a  certain  affair,  he  had  recently  been  in- 
volved in  a  criminal  prosecution,  and  nothing  less 
than  the  intervention  of  the  governor  of  Normandie, 
at  the  duchess's  solicitation,  availed  to  stop  the  pro- 
ceedings. The  duke  had  no  reason  to  regret  his 
notorious  espousal  of  the  ex-bone-setter's  cause: 
Beauvouloir  saved  the  Marquis  de  Saint-Sever  from 
an  illness  so  serious  that  no  other  physician  could 
have  effected  a  cure.  But  the  duchess's  wound 
was  of  too  ancient  date  to  be  cured,  especially  when 
it  was  constantly  reopened  in  her  home.  When 
the  intensity  of  her  suffering  seemed  to  portend  the 
speedy  demise  of  that  angel  whom  so  many  bitter 
sorrows  prepared  for  a  happier  destiny,  death's  pace 
was  accelerated  by  gloomy  forebodings  of  the  future. 

"  What  will  become  of  my  poor  child  without  me?" 
was  a  thought  which  recurred  again  and  again  like  a 
wave  of  bitterness. 

At  last,  when  she  was  obliged  to  keep  her  bed, 
the  duchess  glided  swiftly  toward  the  tomb;  for  then 
she  was  deprived  of  her  son,  to  whom  her  bedside 
was  forbidden  by  the  compact  to  the  faithful  observ- 
ance of  which  he  owed  his  life.  The  child's  grief 
was  equal  to  the  mother's.  Inspired  by  the  genius 
peculiar  to  repressed  feelings,  Etienne  created  the 
most  mysterious  of  languages  to  enable  him  to  con- 
verse with  his  mother.  He  studied  the  resources 
of  his  voice  as  the  most  talented  singer  might  have 
done,  and  sang  in  a  melancholy  accent  beneath  his 
mother's  window  when  Beauvouloir  signalled  to  him 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  303 

that  she  was  alone.  Formerly,  in  the  cradle,  he  had 
comforted  his  mother  by  intelligent  smiles;  now, 
having  grown  to  be  a  poet,  he  caressed  her  with  the 
sweetest  melodies. 

"That  singing  gives  me  new  life!"  said  the 
duchess  to  Beauvouloir,  inhaling  the  air  to  which 
Etienne's  voice  imparted  quickening  force. 

At  last,  the  moment  arrived  when  a  long  period 
of  mourning  was  to  begin  for  the  accursed  child. 
On  several  previous  occasions,  he  had  discovered  a 
mysterious  affinity  between  his  emotions  and  the 
movements  of  the  ocean.  The  power  of  divining 
the  thoughts  of  matter,  with  which  his  occult  learn- 
ing had  gifted  him,  made  this  phenomenon  more 
eloquent  to  him  than  to  others.  During  the  fatal 
evening  when  he  was  to  see  his  mother  for  the 
last  time,  the  ocean  was  convulsed  by  movements 
which  seemed  to  him  most  extraordinary.  The 
surface  of  the  water  was  so  agitated  as  to  disclose 
the  fermentation  of  the  lower  deeps;  the  sea  rose 
in  huge  waves  which  expired  on  the  shore  with  a 
mournful  noise  like  the  howling  of  a  dog  in  distress. 
Etienne  surprised  himself,  asking: 

"  What  does  it  want  of  me?  it  trembles  and  moans 
like  a  living  creature!  My  mother  has  often  told  me 
that  the  ocean  writhed  in  horrible  convulsions  the 
night  I  was  born.  What  is  going  to  happen  to  me?" 

This  thought  kept  him  standing  at  the  window 
of  his  hovel,  with  his  eyes  fixed  sometimes  on  the 
window  of  his  mother's  chamber,  where  a  light  was 
flickering,  sometimes  on  the  ocean,  which  continued 


304  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

to  groan.  Suddenly,  Beauvouloir  knocked  softly, 
opened  the  door,  and  appeared  with  the  reflection  of 
disaster  upon  his  saddened  face. 

"  Monseigneur,"  he  said,  "  madame  is  in  such  a 
critical  condition  that  she  wishes  to  see  you.  All 
precautions  are  taken  so  that  no  harm  can  happen  to 
you  at  the  chateau;  but  we  must  be  very  prudent, 
we  shall  be  obliged  to  pass  through  monseigneur's 
bedroom,  the  room  where  you  were  born." 

These  words  brought  tears  to  Etienne's  eyes. 

"  The  ocean  has  spoken  to  me!"  he  cried. 

He  mechanically  submitted  to  be  led  toward  the 
door  of  the  tower  to  which  Bertrand  had  been  sum- 
moned on  the  night  when  the  duchess  was  brought 
to  bed  of  the  accursed  child.  The  squire  was  wait- 
ing there,  lantern  in  hand.  Etienne  was  taken  to 
Cardinal  d'Herouville's  great  library,  where  he  was 
obliged  to  remain  with  Beauvouloir  while  Bertrand 
went  before  to  open  the  doors  and  make  sure  that 
the  accursed  child  could  safely  pass.  The  duke  was 
not  awake.  As  they  crept  noiselessly  along,  Beau- 
vouloir and  Etienne  heard  naught  in  the  vast  chateau 
save  the  faint  moaning  of  the  dying  woman.  Thus 
the  circumstances  that  attended  Etienne's  birth  were 
repeated  at  his  mother's  death.  The  same  tempes- 
tuous weather,  the  same  agony,  the  same  fear  of 
waking  the  pitiless  giant,  who  was  sleeping  soundly 
this  time.  To  avoid  all  danger,  the  squire  took 
Etienne  in  his  arms  and  carried  him  through  his 
redoubtable  master's  bedroom,  prepared  to  put  for- 
ward some  excuse  based  on  the  duchess's  condition 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  305 

if  he  should  be  detected.  Etienne's  heart  was  hor- 
ribly oppressed  by  the  terror  of  those  two  loyal  ser- 
vants; but  the  emotion  prepared  him,  so  to  speak,  for 
the  spectacle  presented  to  his  eyes  in  that  seignorial 
apartment  which  he  now  entered  for  the  first  time 
since  the  day  on  which  his  father's  curse  had  ban- 
ished him  therefrom.  On  the  great  bed  which  hap- 
piness never  visited,  his  eyes  sought  his  beloved  and 
did  not  find  her  without  some  difficulty,  she  had 
grown  so  thin.  White  as  the  lace  about  her  neck, 
having  but  a  few  last  breaths  to  draw,  she  collected 
all  her  strength  to  take  Etienne's  hand,  and  would 
fain  have  given  him  all  her  soul  in  one  last  glance, 
as  Chaverny  had  bequeathed  all  his  life  to  her  in 
an  adieu.  Beauvouloir  and  Bertrand,  the  child  and 
the  mother,  and  the  sleeping  duke  were  once  more 
assembled  in  the  same  room.  The  same  spot,  the 
same  stage-setting,  the  same  actors;  but  the  sorrow 
of  death  instead  of  the  joys  of  maternity,  the  dark- 
ness of  the  grave  instead  of  the  light  of  life.  At 
this  juncture,  the  storm  which  had  been  fore- 
shadowed since  sundown  by  the  melancholy  moan- 
ing of  the  sea,  suddenly  burst  upon  the  chateau. 

"  Dear  flower  of  my  life,"  said  Jeanne  de  Saint- 
Savin,  kissing  her  son's  brow,  "  you  were  taken 
from  my  womb  in  the  midst  of  a  storm,  and  in  the 
midst  of  a  storm  I  am  taken  from  you.  Between 
these  two  storms  my  whole  life  has  been  stormy, 
save  for  the  hours  I  have  passed  with  you.  This 
is  my  last  joy;  it  is  mingled  with  my  last  sorrow. 
Adieu,  my  only  love!  adieu,  lovely  image  of  two 

20 


306  THE   ACCURSED   CHILD 

souls  soon  to  be  united  !  adieu,  my  only  joy,  pure 
joy!  adieu,  my  only  beloved!" 

"  Let  me  go  with  you,"  said  Etienne,  who  had 
lain  down  on  his  mother's  bed. 

"  That  would  be  a  happier  destiny!"  she  replied, 
and  the  tears  rolled  down  her  livid  cheeks,  for,  as 
in  the  old  days,  her  glance  seemed  to  read  the 
future. — "  Did  no  one  see  him?"  she  asked  the  two 
retainers. 

At  that  moment,  the  duke  moved  in  his  bed;  they 
all  started  in  alarm. 

"  There  is  some  alloy  even  in  my  last  pleasure!" 
said  the  duchess.  "  Take  him  away!  take  him 
away!" 

"Mother,  dear,  I  would  see  you  a  moment  more 
and  die!"  said  the  poor  child,  fainting  on  the  bed. 

At  a  sign  from  the  duchess,  Bertrand  took  him  in 
his  arms,  and,  after  allowing  the  mother  to  see  his 
face  once  more  and  to  kiss  him  with  a  parting  glance, 
he  prepared  to  carry  him  away,  awaiting  further 
orders  from  the  dying  woman. 

''Love  him  dearly,"  she  said  to  the  squire  and 
the  physician,  "for  I  know  of  no  others  to  protect 
him  save  you  and  God." 

Warned  by  an  instinct  which  never  deceives 
mothers,  she  had  observed  the  profound  compas- 
sion aroused  in  the  old  squire's  heart  by  the  eldest 
son  of  the  powerful  family  for  which  he  entertained 
a  feeling  of  veneration  comparable  to  that  of  the 
Jews  for  the  holy  city.  As  for  Beauvouloir,  the 
compact  between  the  duchess  and  him  had  been 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  307 

signed  long  before.  These  two  servitors,  deeply 
moved  by  the  thought  that  their  mistress  was  com- 
pelled to  bequeath  that  noble  child  to  them,  promised 
with  a  solemn  gesture  to  be  their  young  master's 
providence;  and  the  mother  had  faith  in  that  ges- 
ture. 

The  duchess  died  in  the  morning,  a  few  hours 
later;  she  was  mourned  by  the  old  servants,  who,  in 
lieu  of  discourse,  said  upon  her  tomb  that  she  was 
"  a  lovely  woman  fallen  from  paradise." 

Etienne  was  plunged  in  the  most  intense  and  most 
lasting  of  all  sorrows,  moreover,  a  voiceless  sorrow. 
He  no  longer  wandered  among  the  rocks,  he  no  longer 
felt  energy  enough  to  read  or  sing.  He  remained 
whole  days  crouching  in  the  hollow  of  a  rock,  indif- 
ferent to  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,  motionless, 
as  if  bound  fast  to  the  granite,  like  one  of  the  mosses 
that  flourished  there,  weeping  very  rarely,  but  ab- 
sorbed in  a  single  thought,  a  thought  as  vast,  as 
infinite,  as  the  ocean;  and,  like  the  ocean,  that 
thought  assumed  a  thousand  forms,  became  by  turns 
awe-inspiring,  tempestuous,  calm.  It  was  more  than 
a  sorrow,  it  was  a  new  life,  an  irrevocable  destiny 
imposed  upon  that  beautiful  creature  who  was  des- 
tined never  to  smile  again.  There  are  troubles 
which,  like  blood  thrown  into  running  water,  tinge 
the  surface  for  a  moment,  but  the  next  wave  re- 
stores its  purity;  in  Etienne's  case,  however,  the 
source  itself  was  tainted,  and  each  wave  of  time 
brought  down  to  him  its  own  dose  of  gall  and  bitter- 
ness. 


308  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

In  his  old  age,  Bertrand  had  retained  the  super- 
intendence of  the  stables,  in  order  not  to  lose  his 
authority  in  the  household.  His  lodge  was  near 
the  cabin  where  Etienne  lived  in  retirement,  so 
that  he  was  favorably  situated  to  watch  over  him 
with  the  persistent  affection  and  cunning  simplicity 
characteristic  of  old  soldiers.  He  laid  aside  all  his 
roughness  of  manner  when  he  spoke  to  the  poor 
child;  in  rainy  weather  he  would  go  in  search  of 
him,  gently  rouse  him  from  his  musing,  and  lead 
him  back  to  the  house.  He  took  pride  in  filling 
the  duchess's  place,  in  such  manner  that  her  son 
would  find  in  him  the  same  solicitude  for  his  wel- 
fare, at  least,  if  not  the  same  love.  This  compassion 
resembled  affection.  Etienne  submitted  to  the  old 
retainer's  attentions  without  remonstrance  or  re- 
sistance; but  too  many  ties  between  the  accursed 
child  and  his  fellow-creatures  were  broken  for  any 
warm  affection  to  find  a  place  in  his  heart.  He 
mechanically  allowed  himself  to  be  taken  care  of, 
for  he  had  become,  as  it  were,  an  intermediate 
creature  between  man  and  the  plant,  or  perhaps 
between  man  and  God.  To  what  can  we  compare 
a  being  to  whom  the  social  laws  and  the  artificial 
sentiments  of  society  were  unknown,  and  who  re- 
tained an  enchanting  innocence  while  obeying  only 
the  instinctive  impulses  of  his  heart?  Neverthe- 
less, despite  his  brooding  melancholy,  he  soon  felt 
the  necessity  of  loving,  of  having  another  mother, 
another  heart  all  his  own;  but,  being  separated  from 
civilization  by  a  barrier  of  iron,  there  was  small 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  309 

probability  that  he  would  fall  in  with  a  being  who 
had  transformed  himself  into  a  flower  as  he  had 
done. 

By  dint  of  seeking  another  himself,  to  whom  he 
could  confide  his  thoughts,  and  whose  life  might 
be  blended  in  his,  he  found  at  last  a  congenial  soul 
in  the  ocean.  The  ocean  became  in  his  eyes  an 
animate,  thinking  being.  Always  face  to  face  with 
that  boundless  creation  whose  hidden  wonders  form 
so  magnificent  a  contrast  to  those  of  the  earth,  he 
discovered  therein  the  explanation  of  many  mys- 
teries. Having  been  familiar  from  infancy  with  that 
infinite  expanse  of  watery  fields,  the  sea  and  the 
sky  told  him  wonderfully  poetic  tales.  To  him  there 
was  constant  variety  in  that  immense  picture,  so 
monotonous  to  others.  Like  all  men  whose  souls 
dominate  their  bodies,  his  sight  was  extraordinarily 
keen,  and  he  could  distinguish  at  enormous  dis- 
tances, with  marvellous  facility  and  without  fatigue, 
the  most  ephemeral  variations  of  light,  the  most 
fugitive  ripples  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  Even 
in  an  absolute  calm  he  could  detect  innumerable 
shades  of  color  in  the  sea,  which,  like  a  woman's 
face,  had  an  expression  of  its  own,  smiles,  ideas, 
caprices;  here  green  and  lowering,  there  of  a  laugh- 
ing blue;  now  joining  its  shimmering  line  to  the 
vague  gleam  of  the  horizon,  now  plashing  softly 
under  orange-hued  clouds.  To  his  vision  there  were 
superb  fe"tes  celebrated  with  great  pomp  when  the  sun 
went  down,  when  the  great  luminary  cast  its  ruddy 
gleam  over  the  waves  like  a  cloak  of  royal  purple. 


310  THE    ACCURSED    CHILD 

In  his  eyes  the  sea  was  merry,  animated,  overflow- 
ing with  high  spirits,  at  mid-day,  when  its  glimmering 
surface  reflected  the  brilliant  glare  in  its  myriads 
of  dazzling  facets;  it  laid  bare  to  him  astounding 
depths  of  melancholy,  it  made  him  shed  tears  when, 
calm,  resigned,  and  sad,  it  reflected  a  gray,  cloud- 
laden  sky.  He  had  learned  the  silent  languages  of 
that  boundless  creation.  Its  ebb  and  flow  were  like 
a  melodious  respiration,  each  breath  of  which  de- 
picted a  sentiment;  and  he  understood  its  secret 
meaning.  No  sailor,  no  scientist  could  have  pre- 
dicted more  certainly  than  he  the  slightest  outburst 
of  old  ocean's  wrath,  the  slightest  change  in  his  ex- 
pression. From  the  way  in  which  the  waves  broke 
upon  the  shore,  he  divined  hurricanes,  squalls,  high 
seas,  and  abnormal  tides.  When  night  spread  its 
veil  over  the  sky,  he  could  still  see  the  ocean  in  the 
twilight  gleam,  and  would  hold  converse  with  it;  he 
shared  in  its  fruitful  life,  he  felt  a  veritable  tempest 
in  his  soul  when  it  was  wroth;  he  inhaled  the  wrath 
expressed  in  its  shrill  hissing,  he  ran  with  the  huge 
waves  which  broke  in  liquid  fringe  on  the  rocks;  he 
felt  that  he,  like  it,  was  fearless  and  awe-inspiring, 
and,  like  it,  leaped  hither  and  thither  with  prodigious 
strength;  he  imitated  its  attacks  of  gloomy  silence, 
its  sudden  clemency.  In  a  word,  he  had  married 
the  sea,  it  was  his  friend  and  confidant. 

In  the  morning,  when  he  went  out  upon  the  rocks, 
when  he  walked  along  the  fine,  glistening  sand  of 
.the  beach,  he  could  detect  the  ocean's  mood  at  a 
glance;  he  had  a  sudden  vision  of  its  varied  surface, 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  311 

and  thus  he  soared  over  the  face  of  the  great  waters 
like  an  angel  from  heaven.  If  merry,  frolicsome,  pale 
vapors  cast  over  it  a  network  as  fine  as  the  veil  on 
a  fiancee's  brow,  he  followed  its  capricious  undula- 
tions with  the  joy  of  a  lover,  no  less  enchanted  to 
find  it  in  the  morning  as  coquettish  as  a  woman  just 
rising  and  still  half  asleep,  than  a  husband  to  see 
his  young  wife  once  more  in  the  resplendent  beauty 
which  pleasure  has  enhanced.  His  thoughts,  mar- 
ried to  that  grand  and  divine  thought,  consoled  him 
in  his  solitude,  and  the  innumerable  radiations  from 
his  soul  peopled  his  narrow  desert  with  sublime 
fancies.  In  short,  he  had  at  last  detected  in  all 
the  movements  of  the  sea  its  intimate  connection 
with  the  celestial  mechanism,  and  caught  glimpses 
of  nature  as  a  harmonious  whole,  from  the  spear  of 
grass  to  the  wandering  stars,  which,  like  seed  borne 
upon  the  wind,  seek  to  establish  themselves  in  the 
ether.  Pure  as  an  angel,  unspotted  by  the  ideas 
which  degrade  man,  innocent  as  a  child,  he  lived 
like  a  sea-mew,  like  a  flower,  expending  naught 
save  the  treasures  of  a  poetic  imagination,  of  a 
divine  knowledge  of  which  he  alone  realized  the 
fertility  and  the  scope. 

Marvellous  blending  of  two  creations!  now  he 
raised  himself  to  God  by  prayer;  again  he  de- 
scended, humble  and  resigned,  to  the  placid  happi- 
ness of  the  brute.  In  his  eyes  the  stars  were  the 
flowers  of  night;  the  sun  was  a  father,  the  birds 
were  his  friends.  His  mother's  soul  was  every- 
where; often  he  saw  her  in  the  clouds;  he  spoke 


312  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

to  her,  and  they  held  real  communication  by  means 
of  heavenly  visions;  on  certain  days  he  heard  her 
voice,  was  enchanted  by  her  smile;  in  a  word,  there 
were  days  when  he  had  not  lost  her!  God  seemed 
to  have  given  him  the  power  of  the  recluses  of  old,  to 
have  endowed  him  with  inward  senses  of  marvel- 
lous perfection  which  penetrated  the  very  spirit  of 
things.  Mental  power  of  incredible  extent  enabled 
him  to  advance  further  than  other  men  in  the  secrets 
of  immortal  works.  His  regrets  and  his  grief  were 
like  bonds  uniting  him  to  the  world  of  spirits;  he 
went  thither,  armed  with  his  love,  to  seek  his 
mother,  realizing  thus,  by  virtue  of  the  sublime 
harmonies  of  ecstasy,  the  symbolical  undertaking 
of  Orpheus.  He  soared  into  the  sky  or  into  the 
future,  even  as  he  flew  over  the  sea  from  horizon  line 
to  horizon  line.  Often,  too,  when  he  was  stretched 
at  the  bottom  of  some  deep  cavity  capriciously  hol- 
lowed out  of  a  block  of  granite,  with  an  entrance  as 
narrow  as  that  of  a  wild  beast's  den,  and  softly 
lighted  by  the  sun's  hot  rays,  which  shone  through 
the  fissures  and  showed  him  the  dainty  sea-mosses 
with  which  the  retreat  was  decorated, — a  veritable 
sea-fowls'  nest, — often  he  was  overcome  by  sleep 
against  his  will.  Only  the  sun,  his  sovereign,  told 
him  that  he  had  slept,  by  measuring  the  time  during 
which  his  views  of  the  sea,  his  golden  sands,  and  his 
shells  had  disappeared  from  his  sight.  He  gazed  in 
wondering  admiration  at  the  immense  cities  of  which 
his  books  told  him,  bathed  in  a  light  as  bright  as 
that  of  the  heavens;  he  viewed  with  amazement, 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  313 

but  without  envy,  courts,  kings,  battles,  men,  and 
monuments.  These  dreams  in  broad  daylight  always 
made  his  sweet  flowers,  his  clouds,  his  sun,  his  noble 
granite  cliffs,  dearer  to  him  than  before.  In  order  to 
bind  him  more  closely  to  his  solitary  life,  an  angel 
seemed  to  reveal  to  him  the  abysses  of  the  moral 
world,  and  the  terrible  clash  of  civilizations.  He 
felt  that  his  heart  would  soon  be  rent  asunder  among 
those  oceans  of  men,  and  would  be  crushed  like  a 
pearl  which  falls  from  the  head-dress  of  a  princess 
into  the  mud  of  the  street. 


II 

HOW   THE   SON   DIED 


In  1617,  twenty  years  and  more  after  the  horrible 
night  during  which  Etienne  was  brought  into  the 
world,  the  Due  d'Herouville,  then  seventy-six  years 
of  age,  old  and  broken,  almost  dead,  was  sitting  one 
evening,  at  sunset,  in  a  huge  armchair  by  the  ogive 
windows  of  his  bedroom,  on  the  very  spot  where 
the  countess  had  so  unavailingly  implored  the  help 
of  God  and  man  by  her  feeble  blasts  upon  the  horn. 
He  seemed  a  genuine  relic  of  the  tomb.  His  ener- 
getic features,  robbed  of  their  threatening  aspect  by 
suffering  and  by  age,  were  of  a  pallid  hue  which 
corresponded  with  the  thin  locks  of  white  hair  fring- 
ing his  bald  head;  his  yellow  cranium  seemed  to  in- 
dicate general  debility.  The  warlike,  fanatical  spirit 
still  gleamed  in  his  yellow  eyes,  although  tempered 
by  religious  feeling.  The  habit  of  devotion  imparted 
a  monastic  tinge  to  that  face,  formerly  so  hard  but 
now  marked  with  lines  which  softened  its  expres- 
sion. The  reflection  of  the  setting  sun  cast  a  soft 
red  light  upon  that  still  vigorous  head.  The  weary 
attitude,  the  utter  immobility  of  the  enfeebled  body, 
dressed  in  dark  clothes,  completed  the  picture  of  the 
(3i5) 


316  THE   ACCURSED   CHILD 

monotonous  existence,  the  ghastly  repose  of  that 
man,  once  so  enterprising,  shrewd,  and  rugged. 

"  Enough,"  he  said  to  his  chaplain. 

The  venerable  old  man,  standing  before  the  mas- 
ter in  a  respectful  attitude,  was  reading  the  Gospel. 
The  duke,  who,  like  the  old  lions  in  a  menagerie, 
though  decrepit,  was  none  the  less  majestic,  turned 
to  another  white-haired  man  and  held  out  to  him  a 
skinny  arm  covered  with  white  hairs,  still  full  of 
nervous  energy  but  without  strength. 

"Now,  bone-setter,"  he  cried,  "see  how  I  am 
to-day." 

"All  goes  well,  monseigneur,  and  the  fever  has 
disappeared.  You  will  live  for  many  years  to 
come." 

"I  would  that  Maximilien  were  here,"  rejoined 
the  duke,  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction.  "  He's  a 
fine  fellow!  he  commands  a  company  of  arquebusiers 
now  in  the  king's  household.  Marechal  d'Ancre  has 
had  an  eye  on  my  boy,  and  our  gracious  Queen 
Marie  is  looking  about  for  a  suitable  match  for  him 
now  that  he  has  been  created  Due  de  Nivron.  So 
my  name  will  be  worthily  perpetuated!  The  boy 
performed  prodigies  of  valor  at  the  attack — " 

At  that  moment,  Bertrand  appeared  with  a  letter 
in  his  hand. 

"  What  is  that?"  asked  the  old  nobleman,  eagerly. 

"A  despatch  brought  by  a  courier  from  the  king," 
replied  the  squire. 

"From  the  king,  and  not  the  queen-mother!" 
cried  the  duke.  "  What  can  possibly  be  happening? 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  317 

If  the  Huguenots  should  have  taken  up  arms  again, 
tete-Dieu!"  he  continued,  rising  from  his  chair  and 
casting  a  fiery  glance  at  the  three  old  men.  "  I  would 
arm  my  soldiers,  and,  with  Maximilien  at  my  side, 
Normandie — " 

"  Be  seated,  my  dear  lord,"  said  the  bone-setter, 
disturbed  to  see  the  duke  indulge  in  an  outburst  of 
warlike  passion,  dangerous  in  a  convalescent. 

"Read,  Master  Corbineau,"  said  the  old  man, 
handing  the  despatch  to  his  confessor. 

Those  four  men  formed  a  picture  full  of  instruc- 
tion concerning  human  life.  The  squire,  the  priest, 
and  the  physician,  whitened  by  the  lapse  of  years, 
standing  before  their  master  in  his  great  chair,  and 
glancing  timidly  at  one  another,  each  interpreted 
one  of  the  ideas  which  finally  take  possession  of 
man  on  the  brink  of  the  grave.  The  silent  men, 
with  a  last  beam  of  the  setting  sun  shining  full 
upon  them,  formed  a  picture  teeming  with  melan- 
choly significance  and  fertile  in  contrasts.  That 
gloomy,  solemn  chamber,  where  nothing  had  changed 
in  twenty-five  years,  was  a  fitting  frame  for  that 
poetic  page,  overflowing  with  extinct  passions,  sad- 
dened by  death,  filled  with  religious  faith. 

"  Marechal  d'Ancre  has  been  killed  on  the  Pont 
du  Louvre  by  the  king's  orders;  then — oh!  mon 
Dieu!" 

"  Finish!"  cried  the  old  nobleman. 

"Monseigneur  le  Due  de  Nivron — " 

"Well?" 

"  Is  dead !" 


318  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

The  duke's  head  fell  forward  on  his  breast,  he 
heaved  a  great  sigh,  and  said  not  a  word.  At  that 
sigh,  the  three  old  men  looked  at  one  another.  It 
seemed  to  them  that  the  wealthy  and  illustrious 
house  of  D'Herouville  was  vanishing  before  their 
eyes  like  a  sinking  ship. 

"The  Master  on  high,"  said  the  duke  at  last, 
turning  his  eyes  upward  with  a  terrible  expression, 
"displays  great  ingratitude  to  me!  He  does  not 
remember  the  doughty  deeds  I  have  performed  in 
His  holy  cause!" 

"  God  avenges  himself,"  said  the  priest  in  a  grave 
voice. 

"  Throw  that  man  into  the  dungeon!"  roared  the 
duke. 

"  You  can  impose  silence  upon  me  more  easily 
than  upon  your  conscience." 

The  duke  became  pensive  once  more. 

"  My  house  perish  from  the  earth!  my  name  be- 
come extinct!  I  will  marry,  and  have  a  son!"  he 
exclaimed,  after  a  long  pause. 

Terrible  as  was  the  expression  of  despair  on  the 
Due  d'Herouville's  face,  the  bone-setter  could  not  re- 
strain a  smile.  At  that  moment,  a  voice  as  fresh  as 
the  evening  breeze,  as  pure  as  the  sky,  as  simple 
as  the  hue  of  ocean,  rose  in  song  above  the  mur- 
muring of  the  waves  as  if  to  lay  a  spell  upon  nature. 
The  melancholy  quality  of  the  voice,  the  melodious 
words,  filled  the  soul  like  a  sweet  perfume.  The 
harmony  ascended  in  clouds,  pervaded  the  air, 
poured  balm  upon  all  sorrows,  or,  rather,  appeased 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  319 

them  by  giving  expression  to  them.  The  voice 
blended  so  perfectly  with  the  plashing  of  the  waves 
that  it  seemed  to  come  from  their  bosom.  The  song 
was  sweeter  to  the  ears  of  those  old  men  than  the 
tenderest  word  of  love  to  a  maiden:  it  bore  to  them 
such  a  world  of  religious  hopes  that  it  echoed  in 
their  hearts  like  a  voice  from  Heaven. 

"  What  is  this?"  asked  the  duke. 

"  The  little  nightingale  is  singing,"  said  Bertrand  ; 
"all  is  not  lost,  for  him  or  for  us." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  nightingale?" 

"  It's  the  name  we  have  given  to  monseigneur's 
eldest  son,"  Bertrand  replied. 

"  My  son!"  cried  the  old  man,  "  I  have  a  son,  than, 
something  that  bears  my  name  and  is  capable  of 
perpetuating  it?" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  began  to  pace  the  room, 
slowly  and  hurriedly  by  turns;  then,  with  a  com- 
manding gesture,  he  dismissed  his  attendants,  with 
the  exception  of  the  priest. 

The  next  morning,  the  duke,  leaning  on  his  old 
squire's  arm,  walked  along  the  shore,  among  the 
rocks,  seeking  the  son  whom  he  had  cursed  long 
ago;  he  spied  him  at  a  distance,  lying  in  a  crevice 
of  the  cliffs,  stretched  carelessly  in  the  sun,  with 
his  head  on  a  tuft  of  soft  grass  and  his  feet  grace- 
fully drawn  up  under  his  body.  Etienne  resembled 
a  swallow  at  rest.  As  soon  as  the  tall  old  man  ap- 
peared on  the  shore,  and  his  footsteps,  deadened  by 
the  sand,  could  be  faintly  heard,  mingled  with  the 
voice  of  the  waves,  Etienne  turned  his  head,  uttered 


320  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

a  cry  like  a  frightened  bird  and  disappeared  in  the 
very  granite,  like  a  mouse  which  returns  so  swiftly 
to  its  hole  that  one  doubts  if  one  really  saw  it. 

"Tete-Dieu!  where  the  deuce  has  he  hidden  him- 
self?" cried  the  duke,  when  they  reached  the  rock 
on  which  his  son  had  been  lying. 

"  He  is  there,"  said  Bertrand,  pointing  to  a  narrow 
cleft,  the  edges  of  which  were  worn  away  and  pol- 
ished by  the  repeated  assaults  of  the  high  tide. 

"  Etienne,  my  beloved  son!"  cried  the  old  man. 

The  accursed  child  made  no  reply.  For  a  great 
part  of  the  morning,  the  old  duke  implored,  threat- 
ened, stormed,  in  turn,  but  was  unable  to  obtain  any 
response.  Sometimes  he  kept  silent  and  put  his  ear 
to  the  cleft,  when  all  that  his  impaired  hearing  could 
distinguish  was  the  dull  beating  of  Etienne's  heart, 
whose  hurried  pulsations  echoed  loudly  under  the 
resonant  stone. 

"At  all  events,  this  one  is  alive,"  said  the  old  man 
in  a  heart-rending  tone. 

At  mid-day,  the  father,  in  desperation,  had  recourse 
to  prayer. 

"Etienne,"  he  said,  "my  dear  Etienne,  God  has 
punished  me  for  neglecting  you!  he  has  taken  your 
brother  from  me!  To-day  you  are  my  only  child. 
I  love  you  better  than  I  love  myself.  I  have  become 
convinced  of  my  error,  I  know  that  you  really  have 
my  blood  and  your  mother's  in  your  veins,  and  that 
her  unhappiness  was  my  work.  Come,  I  will  try  to 
make  you  forget  my  injustice  by  loving  you  for  all  I 
have  lost.  Etienne,  you  are  Due  de  Nivron  already, 


THE  KING    TO   THE  DUKE 


"Read,   Master    Corbincau"  said  the   old  man, 
handing  the  despatch  to  his  confessor. 
********* 

"  Marechal  d'Ancre  has  been  killed  on  the  Pont 
du  Louvre  by  the  king's  orders;  then — oh!  mon 
Dieu ! " 

"  Finisli  /  "  cried  the  old  nobleman. 

"  Monseigneur  le  Due  de  Nivron — " 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  321 

and  you  shall  be,  after  I  am  gone,  Due  d'Herou- 
ville,  peer  of  France,  Chevalier  of  the  Order  of  the 
Golden  Fleece,  captain  of  a  hundred  men-at-arms, 
grand  baitti  of  Bessin,  governor  of  Normandie  for  the 
king,  lord  of  twenty-seven  domains,  including  sixty- 
nine  churches,  and  Marquis  de  Saint-Sever.  You 
shall  have  a  prince's  daughter  to  wife.  You  shall 
be  the  head  of  the  house  of  D'Herouville.  Do  you 
wish  to  see  me  die  of  grief?  Come,  come  forth!  or 
1  will  remain  here  on  my  knees,  before  your  retreat, 
until  I  have  seen  you.  Your  old  father  beseeches 
you,  and  humbles  himself  before  his  child  as  before 
God  in  person." 

The  accursed  child  did  not  understand  this  ha- 
rangue bristling  with  social  allusions  and  vanities  of 
which  he  had  no  conception,  and  his  heart  was  op- 
pressed by  a  feeling  of  unconquerable  terror.  He 
remained  silent,  suffering  horrible  agony.  Toward 
evening,  the  old  man,  having  exhausted  all  the  forms 
of  speech,  all  the  resources  of  prayer,  and  all  the 
accents  of  repentance,  was  assailed  by  a  species  of 
religious  contrition.  He  knelt  on  the  sand  and  made 
this  vow: 

"  I  swear  to  erect  a  chapel  to  Saint- Jean  and  Saint- 
Etienne,  my  wife's  patron  saint  and  my  son's,  and 
to  found  a  hundred  masses  in  honor  of  the  Virgin,  if 
God  and  the  saints  restore  to  me  the  affection  of 
Monsieur  le  Due  de  Nivron,  my  son,  here  present!" 

He  remained  on  his  knees,  in  an  attitude  of  pro- 
found humility,  with  clasped  hands,  and  prayed. 
But  when  his  child,  the  hope  of  his  name,  failed  to 


322  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

appear,  great  tears  issued  from  his  eyes,  so  long  dry, 
and  rolled  down  his  withered  cheeks.  At  that  mo- 
ment, Etienne,  hearing  nothing  more,  glided  to  the 
mouth  of  his  grotto,  like  a  young  snake  hungry  for 
the  sun  ;  he  saw  the  downcast  old  man's  tears,  rec- 
ognized the  language  of  sorrow,  seized  his  father's 
hand  and  kissed  it,  saying  in  an  angel's  voice: 

"  O  mother,  forgive  me!" 

In  the  fever  of  his  joy,  the  governor  of  Normandie 
lifted  his  dwarfish  heir,  who  trembled  like  a  kid- 
napped maiden,  and  carried  him  away  in  his  arms; 
feeling  that  his  heart  beat  fast,  he  tried  to  reassure 
him,  kissing  him  with  as  much  precaution  as  he 
would  have  taken  in  handling  a  flower,  and  finding 
on  his  lips  soft  words  which  he  had  never  before 
known  how  to  utter. 

"l/rai-Dieu!  you  are  like  my  poor  Jeanne,  dear 
boy!"  he  said  to  him.  "Tell  me  of  anything  that 
will  please  you,  and  you  shall  have  whatever  you 
desire.  Be  strong  and  well !  I  will  teach  you  to 
ride  on  a  mare  as  pretty  and  sweet-tempered  as  you 
are  yourself.  Nobody  shall  vex  you.  Tete-Dieu! 
everything  about  you  shall  bend  to  your  will  like 
reeds  before  the  wind.  I  propose  to  give  you  abso- 
lute power  here.  I  myself  will  obey  you  as  the  god 
of  the  family." 

Ere  long,  the  father  and  the  son  entered  the  lordly 
chamber  in  which  the  mother  had  passed  her  melan- 
choly life.  Etienne  walked  abruptly  to  the  window 
where  he  had  begun  to  live,  the  window  from  which 
his  mother  signalled  to  him  to  announce  the  departure 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  323 

of  his  persecutor,  who  had  now,  for  some  reason 
unknown  to  him,  become  his  slave,  and  resembled 
the  gigantic  creatures  whom  a  fairy's  power  placed 
at  the  service  of  a  young  prince.  The  fairy  was 
Feudality.  When  he  saw  once  more  the  room  of 
melancholy  memory,  where  his  eyes  had  been  ac- 
customed to  gaze  upon  the  ocean,  those  eyes  filled 
with  tears;  the  thought  of  his  long  period  of  misery, 
blended  with  the  memories  of  the  joys  he  had  known 
in  the  only  love  which  was  vouchsafed  to  him,  his 
mother's  love, — all  poured  at  once  into  his  heart 
and  formed  there  a  sort  of  poem,  at  once  enchant- 
ing and  terrible.  The  child's  emotions,  accustomed 
as  he  was  to  pass  his  time  in  trance-like  contem- 
plation, just  as  others  give  themselves  up  to  the 
excitements  of  life,  resembled  none  of  the  usual 
emotions  of  mankind. 

"Will  he  live?"  said  the  old  man,  astounded  by 
the  weakness  of  his  son  and  heir,  over  whom  he 
caught  himself  holding  his  breath. 

"  I  can  live  nowhere  but  here,"  said  Etienne, 
simply,  having  overheard  him. 

"  Very  well,  this  room  shall  be  yours,  my  child." 

"What  is  happening?"  said  the  young  Due  de 
Nivron,  as  he  heard  the  retainers  of  the  chateau 
assembling  in  the  salle  des  gardes,  whither  the  duke 
had  summoned  them  all  to  present  his  son  to  them, 
having  had  no  doubt  of  the  success  of  his  quest. 

"Come,"  replied  his  father,  taking  his  arm  and 
leading  him  into  the  great  hall. 

At  that  period,  in  France,  a  duke  and  peer,  blessed 


324  THE   ACCURSED   CHILD 

with  the  worldly  possessions  of  the  Due  d'Herou- 
ville,  and  holding  exalted  offices  and  governorships 
of  provinces,  lived  like  a  prince;  younger  sons  of 
great  families  were  not  ashamed  to  enter  his  service; 
he  had  a  household  and  officers  thereof;  the  first 
lieutenant  of  his  free  company  held  a  position  in 
his  household  similar  to  that  held  to-day  by  a  mar- 
shal's aides  de  camp.  A  few  years  later,  Cardinal  de 
Richelieu  had  body-guards.  Several  princes  allied 
to  the  royal  family,  the  Guises,  Condes,  Nevers, 
VendSmes,  had  pages  selected  from  the  children  of 
the  best  families,  the  last  remaining  trace  of  dead  and 
gone  chivalry.  His  wealth,  and  the  antiquity  of  his 
Norman  family,  denoted  by  his  name, — herus  villa, 
house  of  the  chief, — had  enabled  the  Due  d'Herou- 
ville  to  copy  the  magnificence  of  men  who  were  his 
inferiors,  the  d'Epernons,  for  example,  and  the 
Luynes,  Balagnys,  d'Os,  and  Zamets,  who  were 
looked  upon  in  those  days  as  parvenus,  but  who 
lived  like  princes,  none  the  less.  It  was  an  impos- 
ing spectacle  to  poor  Etienne,  therefore,  to  see  the 
assemblage  of  people  attached  to  his  father's  ser- 
vice. The  duke  mounted  a  chair  placed  under  one 
of  the  soliums,  or  daises  of  carved  wood  with  a  plat- 
form several  steps  above  the  floor,  from  which  cer- 
tain noblemen  in  some  provinces  still  pronounced 
judgment  in  their  seignories — scattered  vestiges  of 
the  feudal  system,  which  disappeared  under  the  reign 
of  Richelieu.  These  thrones,  if  we  may  call  them 
so,  like  the  church-wardens'  benches  in  churches, 
have  become  objects  of  curiosity.  When  Etienne 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  325 

found  himself  there,  beside  his  father,  he  shuddered 
at  the  discovery  that  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him. 

"  Do  not  tremble,"  said  the  duke,  stooping  until 
his  bald  head  touched  his  son's  ear,  "for  all  these 
are  our  people." 

In  the  half-light  produced  by  the  setting  sun, 
whose  beams  reddened  the  windows  of  the  hall, 
Etienne  saw  the  baitti,  the  captains  and  lieutenants 
under  arms,  accompanied  by  a  number  of  soldiers, 
the  squires,  the  chaplain,  the  secretaries,  the  phy- 
sician, the  major-domo,  the  ushers,  the  intendant, 
the  whippers-in,  the  gamekeepers,  the  footmen,  and 
all  the  livery.  Although  they  stood  at  the  respect- 
ful distance  enjoined  by  the  terror  which  the  old 
man  inspired  even  in  the  most  considerable  persons 
who  lived  under  his  orders  and  in  his  province,  there 
was  a  repressed  murmur  due  to  curiosity  and  sus- 
pense. This  murmur  gave  Etienne  a  suffocating 
sensation;  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  felt  the  heavy 
atmosphere  of  a  room  in  which  a  large  number  of 
people  were  breathing;  his  senses,  accustomed  to 
the  pure  and  healthful  sea-air,  were  offended  with  a 
promptitude  which  indicated  their  extreme  delicacy. 
A  horrible  palpitation,  due  to  some  organic  trouble 
of  the  heart,  shook  his  frame  with  its  repeated 
blows,  when  his  father,  obliged  to  play  the  part  of  a 
majestic  old  lion,  delivered,  in  a  solemn  voice,  the 
following  little  speech: 

"My  friends,  this  is  my  son  Etienne,  my  first- 
born, my  presumptive  heir,  the  Due  de  Nivron, 
upon  whom  the  king  will  doubtless  bestow  the  offices 


326  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

held  by  his  late  brother;  I  present  him  to  you  that 
you  may  recognize  him,  and  obey  him  as  if  he  were 
myself.  I  give  you  warning  that  if  one  of  you,  or 
anyone  in  the  province  of  which  I  am  governor, 
offends  the  young  duke  or  runs  counter  to  him  in 
anything,  it  would  be  better  for  him,  if  it  comes  to 
my  knowledge,  that  he  had  never  come  forth  from 
his  mother's  womb.  You  have  heard?  Return  now 
to  your  duties,  and  may  God  guide  you!  The  obse- 
quies of  Maximilien  d'Herouville  will  take  place  here 
when  his.  body  shall  be  brought  hither.  The  house- 
hold will  wear  mourning  for  one  week.  Later,  we 
will  celebrate  the  accession  of  my  son  Etienne." 

"  Vive  Monseigneur!  Vivent  les  d'Herouville!"  the 
assemblage  shouted  until  the  very  walls  groaned. 

The  servants  brought  torches  to  light  the  hall. 
The  tumult,  the  bright  light,  and  the  sensations 
caused  by  his  father's  harangue,  added  to  those  he 
had  already  experienced,  prostrated  Etienne  com- 
pletely; he  fell  upon  the  chair,  leaving  his  woman's 
hand  in  his  father's  broad  one.  When  the  duke, 
who  had  motioned  to  the  lieutenant  of  his  company 
to  draw  near,  said  to  him:  "Well,  Baron  d'Ar- 
tagnon,  I  am  overjoyed  to  be  able  to  repair  my  loss; 
come  and  see  my  son!"  he  felt  that  the  hand  lying 
in  his  was  as  cold  as  ice;  he  glanced  at  the  Due  de 
Nivron,  thought  that  he  was  dead,  and  uttered  a 
cry  of  alarm  which  terrified  the  company. 

Beauvouloir  stepped  on  the  platform,  took  the 
young  man  in  his  arms,  and  carried  him  away,  say- 
ing to  his  master: 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  327 

"You  have  killed  him  by  neglecting  to  prepare 
him  for  this  ceremony." 

"  But  he  will  not  be  able  to  get  children,  will  he, 
if  he  is  like  this?"  queried  the  duke  as  he  followed 
Beauvouloir  into  the  seignorial  chamber  to  which  the 
physician  took  the  young  heir  to  put  him  to  bed. 

"  Well,  master?"  said  the  father,  anxiously. 

"  This  will  amount  to  nothing,"  replied  the  old 
servitor,  showing  his  lord  that  Etienne  had  been  re- 
stored to  life  by  a  cordial  of  which  he  had  given  him 
a  few  drops  on  a  lump  of  sugar, — a  newly-discovered 
substance  of  great  value,  which  apothecaries  sold  for 
its  weight  in  gold. 

"  Take  this,  old  rascal,"  said  the  duke,  offering 
Beauvouloir  his  purse,  "  and  take  care  of  him  like  a 
king's  son!  If  he  should  die  by  your  fault,  I  would 
burn  you  on  a  gridiron  with  my  own  hands." 

"  If  you  continue  to  be  so  violent,  the  Due  de 
Nivron  will  die  by  your  fault,"  was  the  physician's 
blunt  retort;  "  leave  him,  he  is  falling  asleep." 

"  Good-night,  my  love,"  said  the  old  man,  kissing 
his  son  on  the  forehead. 

"  Good-night,  father,"  replied  the  young  man;  and 
his  voice  gave  the  duke  a  shock,  for  it  was  the  first 
time  that  Etienne  had  called  him  father. 

The  duke  took  Beauvouloir's  arm,  and  led  him 
into  a  window  recess  in  an  adjoining  room,  saying: 

"Ah!  you  old  rascal,  a  word  with  you!" 

This  epithet,  which  was  the  duke's  favorite  term 
of  endearment,  made  the  physician  smile;  he  had 
long  since  given  up  his  necromancing. 


328  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

"You  know,"  continued  the  duke,  "that  I  bear 
you  no  ill-will.  You  delivered  my  poor  Jeanne 
twice,  you  cured  my  poor  Maximilien  of  a  dangerous 
disease,  and  you  are  one  of  my  household.  Poor 
boy!  I  will  avenge  him,  I  will  take  it  upon  myself  to 
deal  with  the  man  who  killed  him!  Now  the  whole 
future  of  the  house  of  D'Herouville  is  in  your  hands. 
I  wish  to  marry  this  boy  without  delay.  You  alone 
can  tell  whether  there  is  in  this  abortion  the  stuff 
with  which  to  make  D'Herouvilles.  You  hear.  What 
do  you  think?" 

"His  life  on  the  seashore  has  been  so  pure  and 
chaste  that  nature  is  more  active  in  him  than  it 
would  have  been  had  he  lived  in  your  social  circle. 
But  so  delicate  a  body  is  the  very  humble  servant  of 
the  mind.  Monseigneur  Etienne  should  select  his 
wife  for  himself,  for  everything  in  him  will  be  the 
work  of  nature  and  not  of  your  will.  He  will  love 
ingenuously,  and  will  do,  in  obedience  to  his  heart's 
desire,  what  you  wish  him  to  do  for  the  sake  of  your 
name.  Offer  your  son  a  grande  dame  who  resembles 
a  hackney,  and  he  will  go  and  hide  among  his  cliffs. 
Moreover,  while  a  severe  fright  would  surely  kill 
him,  I  believe  that  too  sudden  happiness  would  strike 
him  down  no  less  surely.  To  avoid  this  calamity, 
Etienne  should,  in  my  opinion,  be  allowed  to  enter  of 
his  own  motion  and  at  his  own  pleasure  the  pathway 
of  love.  I  tell  you,  monseigneur,  although  you  are 
a  great  and  powerful  prince,  you  do  not  understand 
such  matters  at  all.  Honor  me  with  your  entire,  un- 
limited confidence,  and  you  shall  have  a  grandson." 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  329 

"  If  I  obtain  a  grandson  by  any  witchcraft  what- 
soever, I  will  see  to  it  that  you  are  ennobled.  Yes, 
although  it  may  be  difficult,  you  shall  be  transformed 
from  an  old  rascal  into  a  gallant  gentleman,  you  shall 
be  Beauvouloir,  Baron  de  Forcalier.  Employ  all  pos- 
sible means,  natural  magic  and  the  black  art,  nine- 
days'  prayers  in  church,  and  dances  at  the  witches' 
revel, — provided  that  I  have  a  male  heir,  all  will  be 
well." 

"I  know,"  said  Beauvouloir,  "a  chapter  of  sor- 
cerers quite  capable  of  spoiling  everything;  I  mean 
no  other  than  yourself,  monseigneur.  I  know  you. 
To-day,  you  long  for  an  heir  at  any  price;  to-morrow, 
you  will  want  to  lay  down  conditions  to  govern  the 
coming  of  that  heir,  you  will  torment  your  son — " 

"God  forbid!" 

"  Very  well;  then  go  to  court,  where  the  marshal's 
death  and  the  king's  emancipation  must  have  turned 
everything  topsy-turvy,  and  where  you  have  work 
to  do,  were  it  only  to  obtain  the  marshal's  baton 
which  has  been  promised  you.  Leave  me  to  man- 
age Monseigneur  Etienne.  But  pledge  me  your  word 
as  a  gentleman  to  approve  whatever  I  do." 

The  duke  grasped  the  old  n>an's  hand  in  token  of 
his  entire  assent,  and  withdrew  to  his  apartment. 

When  the  days  of  an  exalted  and  powerful  person 
are  numbered,  the  physician  is  an  important  per- 
sonage in  the  house.  We  must  not  be  surprised, 
therefore,  to  find  an  ex-bone-setter  on  such  familiar 
terms  with  the  Due  d'Herouville.  Apart  from  the 
illegitimate  bonds  which  connected  him  with  that 


330  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

great  family  through  his  marriage,  and  which  mili- 
tated in  his  favor,  the  duke  had  so  often  tested 
the  scientist's  sound  sense,  that  he  had  made  him 
one  of  his  favorite  advisers.  Beauvouloir  was 
the  Coyctier  of  this  Louis  XI.  But,  great  as  was  the 
value  of  his  learning,  the  physician  had  less  influ- 
ence than  feudal  prejudices  upon  the  governor  of 
Normandie,  in  whom  still  breathed  the  ferocious 
spirit  of  the  religious  wars.  So  that  he  had  divined 
that  the  prejudices  of  the  noble  would  affect  injuri- 
ously the  wishes  of  the  father.  Like  the  great 
physician  that  he  was,  Beauvouloir  understood  that 
in  one  so  delicately  constituted  as  Etienne  marriage 
should  be  a  gradual,  soothing  inspiration  which  would 
infuse  new  strength  into  him  by  revivifying  him  with 
the  fire  of  love.  As  he  had  said,  to  force  a  wife  upon 
Etienne  would  be  to  kill  him.  Above  all  things,  they 
must  avoid  frightening  him  with  the  idea  of  marriage, 
of  which  he  knew  nothing,  and  must  keep  him  in 
ignorance  of  the  purpose  upon  which  his  father  was 
bent.  This  unknown  poet  was  fitted  for  naught  save 
a  noble  and  beautiful  passion  like  Petrarch's  for 
Laura  or  Dante's  for  Beatrice.  Like  his  mother,  he 
was  all  pure  love,  and  wholly  soul;  they  must  give 
him  the  opportunity  and  await  results,  not  try  to 
force  them;  a  command  would  have  exhausted  the 
very  springs  of  life  in  him. 


Master  Antoine  Beauvouloir  was  a  father;  he  had 
a  daughter  brought  up  under  conditions  which  made 
her  the  one  woman  in  the  world  for  Etienne.  It  was 
so  difficult  to  foresee  the  events  which  transformed 
a  child  destined  by  his  father  for  the  cardinalate  into 
the  heir  presumptive  of  the  house  of  D'Herouville, 
that  Beauvouloir  had  never  noticed  the  similarity 
between  Etienne's  bringing  up  and  Gabrielle's.  It 
was  a  sudden  thought  suggested  by  his  devotion  to 
the  two  young  creatures  rather  than  by  his  ambition. 
Despite  his  skill,  his  wife  had  died  in  labor  when  his 
daughter  was  born,  and  the  child  was  so  frail  that  he 
thought  that  her  mother  must  have  bequeathed  to 
her  the  seeds  of  death.  Beauvouloir  loved  his  Ga- 
brielle  as  all  old  men  love  their  only  child.  His  skill 
and  his  unremitting  care  imparted  an  artificial  life  to 
the  fragile  creature,  whom  he  cultivated  as  carefully 
as  a  florist  cultivates  a  strange  plant.  He  had  hidden 
her  from  all  eyes  on  his  estate  of  Forcalier,  where 
she  was  sheltered  from  the  disasters  of  the  time  by 
the  kindly  feeling  universally  entertained  for  a  man 
to  whom  everyone  owed  a  taper,  and  whose  scien- 
tific powers  inspired  a  sort  of  respectful  awe.  By 
attaching  himself  to  the  house  of  D'Herouville,  he 
had  added  to  the  immunities  which  he  enjoyed  in  the 
province,  and  had  thwarted  the  attacks  of  his  ene- 
mies by  his  formidable  position  in  the  governor's 
(330 


332  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

family;  but,  when  he  came  to  the  chateau,  he  was 
far  too  prudent  to  bring  thither  the  flower  that  he 
kept  buried  at  Forcalier,  a  domain  more  important 
by  virtue  of  its  dependent  estates  than  as  a  place 
of  abode;  he  relied  upon  it  as  a  means  of  finding  for 
his  daughter  a  match  in  conformity  with  his  views. 
When  he  promised  the  old  duke  a  grandson  and 
required  his  promise  to  approve  his  conduct,  he  sud- 
denly thought  of  Gabrielle,  of  that  sweet  child  whose 
mother  the  duke  had  forgotten  as  he  had  forgotten 
his  son  Etienne.  He  awaited  the  duke's  departure 
before  putting  his  plan  in  execution,  foreseeing  that, 
if  the  duke  were  aware  of  it,  the  tremendous  ob- 
stacles which  might  be  removed  if  the  thing  were 
actually  done  would  be  insurmountable  at  the  very 
beginning. 

Master  Beauvouloir's  house  faced  the  south,  on 
the  slope  of  one  of  those  low  hills  which  surround 
the  valleys  of  Normandie;  a  thick  forest  lay  to  the 
north;  high  walls  and  Norman  hedges,  with  deep 
ditches,  formed  an  impenetrable  barrier  on  that  side. 
The  garden  sloped  gently  down  to  the  river  which 
watered  the  fields  of  the  valley,  and  on  which  the 
high  bank  of  a  double  hedge-row  formed  a  natural 
pier  at  that  point.  Through  that  hedge-row  ran  a 
hidden  winding  path,  which  followed  the  sinuosities 
of  the  stream,  and,  because  of  the  dense  growth  of 
willows  and  oaks  and  beeches,  was  as  shadowy 
and  solitary  as  a  forest  path.  Between  the  house  and 
this  natural  rampart  was  a  broad  expanse  of  the  rich 
verdure  peculiar  to  that  fertile  province,  a  lovely 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  333 

green  plain  shaded  by  a  fringe  of  scattered  trees, 
whose  various  shades  of  green  formed  a  tastefully- 
colored  tapestry:  here  the  silvery  foliage  of  a  fir 
stood  out  against  the  dark  green  of  a  clump  of 
alders;  there,  before  a  group  of  venerable  oaks,  a 
slender  poplar  reared  its  ever-waving  branches; 
farther  on,  weeping  willows  drooped  their  pale 
branches  between  huge  round-topped  walnuts.  This 
fringe  of  trees  enabled  one  to  go  from  the  house  to 
the  river  at  any  hour  of  the  day,  without  fear  of  the 
sun's  rays. 

The  facade,  in  front  of  which  wound  the  yellow 
ribbon  of  a  gravelled  terrace,  was  shaded  by  a 
wooden  gallery  covered  with  climbing  plants  which, 
in  the  month  of  May,  tossed  their  flowers  in  at  the 
first-floor  windows.  Although  it  was  not  of  great 
size,  the  garden  seemed  immense  because  of  the 
way  in  which  the  paths  were  cut;  and  its  view- 
points, cleverly  arranged  on  the  highest  land,  com- 
manded those  in  the  valley,  where  the  eye  could 
range  freely.  Following  the  instinctive  bidding  of 
her  thought,  Gabrielle  could  either  seek  the  solitude 
of  a  confined  space,  where  she  could  see  nothing 
save  the  thick  turf  and  the  blue  sky  between  the 
tree-tops,  or  allow  her  eyes  to  roam  over  the  love- 
liest of  landscapes,  following  the  shading  of  the  lines 
of  green  from  the  foreground,  where  they  were  so 
dazzlingly  brilliant,  to  the  purest  depths  of  the  hori- 
zon, where  they  faded  away,  sometimes  into  the 
blue  ocean  of  the  air,  sometimes  into  the  mountains 
of  clouds  floating  therein. 


334  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

Cared  for  by  her  grandmother,  waited  upon  by  her 
nurse,  Gabrielle  Beauvouloir  left  that  modest  abode 
only  to  go  to  the  little  church,  whose  steeple  rose 
at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  whither  her  grandmother, 
her  nurse,  and  her  father's  footman  always  accom- 
panied her.  Thus  she  had  reached  the  age  of  seven- 
teen in  the  fascinating  ignorance  which  the  scarcity 
of  books  enabled  a  young  girl  to  preserve  without 
appearing  eccentric,  at  a  time  when  well-educated 
women  w.ere  rare  phenomena.  That  house  had  been 
like  a  convent,  plus  liberty  and  minus  compulsory 
prayer,  where  she  had  lived  under  the  eyes  of  a 
devout  old  woman  and  under  the  protection  of  her 
father,  the  only  man  she  had  ever  seen.  This  pro- 
found solitude,  made  necessary  from  her  birth  by 
the  apparent  feebleness  of  her  constitution,  had  been 
sedulously  maintained  by  Beauvouloir.  As  Gabri- 
elle grew  older,  the  care  which  was  lavished  upon 
her  and  the  influence  of  pure  air  had,  in  very  truth, 
given  her  fragile  youth  new  strength.  Neverthe- 
less, the  skilful  physician  could  not  delude  himself 
with  false  hopes  when  he  saw  the  mother-of-pearl 
circles  around  his  child's  eyes  soften,  grow  dark,  or 
become  inflamed  according  to  her  emotions:  weak- 
ness of  body  and  strength  of  soul  were  indicated  by 
symptoms  which  his  long  practice  enabled  him  to 
recognize.  Moreover,  Gabrielle's  divine  beauty  had 
caused  him  to  dread  enterprises  of  the  sort  that 
were  so  common  in  those  days  of  violence  and  sedi- 
tion. Innumerable  reasons,  therefore,  led  this  fond 
father  to  intensify  the  shadow  and  the  solitude  which 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  335 

encompassed  his  daughter,  whose  excessive  sensi- 
bility terrified  him;  a  sudden  passion,  an  attempt  at 
rape,  an  attack  of  any  kind  would  have  inflicted  a 
fatal  wound  upon  her. 

Although  his  daughter  rarely  transgressed,  a  re- 
proachful word  distressed  her  beyond  measure;  she 
kept  it  in  her  heart,  where  it  sank  deep  and  engen- 
dered a  meditative  sadness;  she  would  go  away  to 
weep,  and  weep  a  long  time.  In  the  case  of  Ga- 
brielle,  therefore,  the  moral  education  required  no 
less  care  than  the  physical  education.  The  old 
physician  had  been  obliged  to  give  up  telling  his 
daughter  the  stories  in  which  children  delight,  for 
they  made  too  deep  an  impression  on  her.  And  this 
man,  whom  long  practice  had  made  so  skilful,  did 
his  utmost  to  develop  his  daughter's  body,  in  order 
to  deaden  the  blows  dealt  by  so  energetic  a  mind.  As 
Gabrielle  was  his  whole  life,  his  love,  his  sole  heiress, 
he  had  never  hesitated  to  procure  such  things  as  were 
likely  to  assist  in  bringing  about  the  desired  result. 
He  carefully  kept  from  her  sight  books,  pictures, 
music,  all  the  creations  of  art  which  might  stimulate 
her  mind.  With  his  mother's  assistance,  he  inter- 
ested Gabrielle  in  manual  employment.  Embroid- 
ery, sewing,  lacemaking,  gardening,  housekeeping, 
gathering  fruit,  in  a  word,  all  the  most  material 
occupations  of  life  were  given  to  the  fascinating 
child  for  her  intellect  to  feed  upon;  Beauvouloir 
brought  her  beautiful  spinning-wheels,  handsomely- 
wrought  chests,  rich  carpets,  pottery  made  by  Ber- 
nard Palissy,  tables,  prie-Dieus,  chairs  curiously 


336  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

carved  and  upholstered  in  rich  stuffs,  diapered  linen, 
and  jewels.  With  the  instinct  which  paternity  gives, 
the  old  man  always  selected  his  gifts  among  the 
works  of  which  the  ornamentation  was  of  the  fan- 
ciful sort  called  arabesques,  and  which,  speaking 
neither  to  the  senses  nor  the  heart,  appeal  to  the 
intellect  alone  by  creations  of  pure  fancy. 

Thus,  strangely  enough,  the  life  which  a  father's 
hatred  had  imposed  upon  Etienne  d'Herouville,  pa- 
ternal love  had  counselled  Beauvouloir  to  impose 
upon  Gabrielle.  In  both  of  these  children  the  soul 
was  likely  to  kill  the  body;  and  except  for  the 
profound  solitude,  prescribed  in  the  one  case  by 
mere  chance,  and  by  science  in  the  other,  they  were 
certain  to  succumb,  one  to  terror,  the  other  to  the 
weight  of  a  too  passionate  love.  But,  alas!  instead 
of  living  in  a  region  of  moor  and  fen,  where  nature 
is  cold  and  her  outlines  stiff  and  harsh,  amid  such 
scenery  as  all  great  painters  have  chosen  for  a  back- 
ground to  their  Virgins,  Gabrielle  lived  in  the  heart 
of  a  fertile  and  luxuriant  valley.  Beauvouloir  was 
unable  to  destroy  the  harmonious  arrangement  of 
the  natural  thickets,  the  graceful  grouping  of  the 
flower-beds,  the  yielding  freshness  of  the  green  turf, 
the  love  expressed  by  the  entwining  of  the  climbing 
plants.  These  vivacious  elements  of  poesy  had  a 
language  of  their  own,  which  Gabrielle  heard  rather 
than  understood,  as  she  abandoned  herself  to  vague 
reveries  in  the  dense  shade;  through  the  hazy  ideas 
suggested  by  her  admiration  of  nature  under  a  clear 
sky,  and  by  her  long  study  of  that  landscape  which 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  337 

she  had  observed  in  all  the  aspects  imprinted  upon 
it  by  the  changing  seasons,  and  the  variations  of  a 
sea-air  in  which  the  fogs  of  England  die  and  the 
clear  skies  of  France  have  their  beginning,  there 
arose  in  her  mind  a  far-away  light,  a  ray  of  dawn 
which  pierced  the  shadows  in  which  her  father  had 
hidden  her. 

Nor  had  Beauvouloir  removed  Gabrielle  from  the 
influence  of  the  divine  love,  and  with  her  admira- 
tion of  nature  was  blended  adoration  of  the  Creator; 
she  had  entered  the  first  path  open  to  a  woman's 
emotions:  she  loved  God,  she  loved  Jesus,  the 
Virgin,  and  the  saints;  she  loved  the  Church  and 
its  ceremonies;  she  was  a  Catholic  after  the  manner 
of  Saint  Theresa,  who  saw  in  Jesus  a  husband  who 
could  do  no  wrong,  a  marriage  for  all  eternity.  But 
Gabrielle  abandoned  herself  to  this  passion  of  strong 
characters  with  such  touching  simplicity,  that  she 
would  have  disarmed  the  most  brutal  seducer  by  the 
childish  artlessness  of  her  language. 

Whither  was  this  life  of  innocence  leading  Ga- 
brielle? How  should  one  instruct  an  intelligence  as 
pure  as  the  water  of  a  placid  lake  which  had  never 
reflected  aught  save  the  azure  of  the  sky?  What 
images  should  be  drawn  upon  that  spotless  canvas? 
About  what  tree  should  that  convolvulus,  with  its 
snow-white  flowers,  be  trained? — The  father  never 
asked  himself  these  questions  without  an  inward 
shudder. 

At  this  moment,  the  worthy  old  physician  was 
riding  slowly  along  on  his  mule,  as  if  he  would  have 

22 


338  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

liked  to  spin  out  forever  the  journey  from  the 
Chateau  d'Herouville  to  Ourscamp,  the  name  of  the 
village  near  which  his  estate  of  Forcalier  was  situ- 
ated. His  boundless  love  for  his  daughter  had  led 
him  to  form  such  an  audacious  plan!  there  was  but 
one  human  being  in  the  whole  world  who  could 
make  her  happy,  and  that  one  was  Etienne.  Surely, 
Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin's  angelic  son  and  Gertrude 
Marana's  innocent  daughter  were  twin  creatures. 
Any  other  woman  than  Gabrielle  would  terrify  the 
heir-presumptive  of  the  house  of  D'Herouville  and 
cause  his  death;  even  as  it  seemed  to  Beauvouloir 
that  Gabrielle  would  die  from  contact  with  any  man 
whose  external  aspect  and  whose  sentiments  lacked 
Etienne's  maidenly  delicacy.  Indeed,  it  was  not  the 
poor  physician's  fault,  for  Chance  had  taken  pleas- 
ure in  the  thought  of  bringing  these  two  together, 
and  had  ordained  that  it  should  be.  But,  under 
Louis  XIII.,  to  presume  to  inveigle  the  Due  d'Herou- 
ville into  marrying  his  only  son  to  a  Norman  bone- 
setter's  daughter!  And  yet,  from  this  marriage  alone 
could  result  the  posterity  which  the  old  duke  impe- 
riously demanded.  Nature  had  destined  those  two 
beautiful  creatures  for  each  other,  God  had  brought 
them  together  by  a  most  extraordinary  concatena- 
tion of  events,  whereas  the  prevailing  ideas  and  the 
laws  placed  impassable  chasms  between  them. 

Although  the  old  man  believed  that  he  saw  God's 
finger  in  all  this,  and  in  spite  of  the  promise  he  had 
extorted  from  the  duke,  he  was  assailed  by  such  ap- 
prehensions at  the  thought  of  the  violent  outbreaks 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  339 

of  that  untamed  nature,  that  he  turned  back  just 
as  he  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill  opposite  the 
hill  of  Ourscamp,  and  could  see  the  smoke  rising 
from  his  roof  among  the  trees  of  his  domain.  His 
illegitimate  relationship  to  his  master  through  his 
wife's  mother,  a  consideration  which  might  have  some 
weight  with  the  duke,  finally  turned  the  scale.  And, 
having  once  made  his  decision,  Beauvouloir  trusted 
in  the  chances  of  life;  it  might  be  that  the  duke 
would  die  before  the  marriage;  furthermore,  he  re- 
lied upon  precedents:  a  peasant  of  Dauphine,  Fran- 
coise  Mignot,  had  recently  married  the  Marechal  de 
1'Hopital,  and  the  son  of  the  Constable  Anne  de  Mont- 
morency  had  married  Diane,  daughter  of  Henri  II. 
and  a  Piedmontese  lady  named  Philippe  Due. 

During  this  deliberation,  while  the  father's  love 
was  calculating  all  the  probabilities,  comparing  the 
chances  of  good  fortune  and  of  evil  fortune,  and 
trying  to  discern  the  future  by  weighing  its  elements, 
Gabrielle  was  walking  in  the  garden,  culling  flowers 
to  embellish  the  vases  made  by  the  famous  potter, 
who  did  with  enamel  what  Benvenuto  Cellini  did 
with  metals.  Gabrielle  had  placed  a  vase,  decorated 
with  animals  in  relief,  on  a  table,  and  filled  it  with 
flowers  to  please  her  grandmother,  and,  perhaps,  to 
give  form  to  her  own  thoughts  as  well.  The  tall 
vase  of  Limoges  porcelain  was  completely  filled, 
placed  on  the  rich  table-cover,  and  Gabrielle  was 
just  saying  to  her  grandmother:  "Look  at  that!" 
when  Beauvouloir  entered.  The  girl  ran  and  threw 
herself  into  her  father's  arms.  After  the  first  effusive 


340  THE   ACCURSED   CHILD 

outbursts  of  affection,  Gabrielle  insisted  that  the  old 
man  should  admire  the  bouquet;  but,  after  glancing 
at  it,  Beauvouloir  fixed  his  eyes  upon  his  daughter 
in  an  intent  gaze  which  brought  the  blood  to  her 
cheeks. 

"It  is  time!"  he  said  to  himself,  understanding 
the  language  of  those  flowers,  each  of  which  had 
evidently  been  studied  as  to  both  shape  and  color- 
ing, for  each  was  so  placed  as  to  produce  a  magic 
effect  on  the  bouquet. 

Gabrielle  stood  in  front  of  her  father,  heedless  of 
the  flower  she  had  begun  on  her  embroidery  frame. 
At  sight  of  his  child,  a  tear  glistened  in  Beauvouloir's 
eye,  rolled  down  his  face,  which  continued,  but  with 
difficulty,  to  maintain  a  stern  expression,  and  fell 
upon  his  shirt,  which,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the 
period,  was  visible  beneath  his  open  doublet,  above 
his  breeches.  He  tossed  aside  his  hat,  in  which  an 
old  red  plume  was  stuck,  so  that  he  could  rub  his 
hand  over  his  bald  head.  As  he  gazed  once  more, 
beneath  the  dark  rafters  of  that  room  with  its  leather 
hangings,  its  ebony  furniture,  its  heavy  silk  portieres 
and  high  mantel,  all  illumined  by  a  mellow  light,  upon 
his  daughter,  who  was  still  all  his,  the  poor  father  felt 
tears  gathering  in  his  eyes  and  wiped  them  away. 
A  father  who  loves  his  child  would  like  to  keep  her 
young  forever;  as  for  him  who  can  see  without  deep 
sorrow  his  daughter  passing  under  the  domination  of 
a  man,  he  is  not  ascending  toward  the  upper  worlds, 
but  is  sinking  down  into  the  lowest  depths  of  space. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  son?"  queried  the  old 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  341 

mother,  removing  her  spectacles  and  seeking  in  the 
goodman's  manner,  ordinarily  so  jovial  and  cheery, 
the  reason  of  a  silence  which  surprised  her. 

The  old  physician  pointed  to  his  daughter,  and  the 
grandmother  nodded  with  a  satisfied  air,  as  if  to  say: 
"  She  is  very  sweet!" 

Who  would  not  have  experienced  Beauvouloir's 
emotion  at  sight  of  the  girl  as  she  appeared  in  the 
costume  of  the  period  and  the  clear  light  of  Nor- 
mandie?  She  wore  a  waist  pointed  in  front  and 
square  behind,  of  the  kind  in  which  the  Italian 
painters  almost  always  dressed  their  saints  and 
Madonnas.  That  dainty  garment  of  sky-blue  vel- 
vet, as  pretty  as  a  water-nymph's,  enveloped  the 
waist  like  aguimpe,  so  compressing  it  as  to  give  a 
most  graceful  curve  to  the  outlines,  which  it  seemed 
to  flatten  slightly;  it  moulded  the  shoulders,  the 
back,  the  waist,  with  the  sharpness  of  a  drawing 
made  by  the  most  skilful  artist,  and  ended  at  the 
neck  in  an  oval  opening  surrounded  with  a  narrow 
edging  of  carmelite-colored  silk,  leaving  bare  as  much 
as  was  necessary  to  display  the  beauty  of  the  woman, 
but  not  enough  to  arouse  desire.  A  skirt  of  the  same 
color  as  the  edging  prolonged  the  lines  designed  by 
the  velvet  waist,  and  fell  about  her  feet  in  narrow 
and,  as  it  were,  flattened  folds.  Her  waist  was  so 
slender  that  Gabrielle  seemed  tall.  Her  tiny  arms 
hung  at  her  sides  with  the  listlessness  which  deep 
thought  imparts  to  the  attitude.  Standing  thus,  she 
was  a  living  model  of  the  ingenuous  masterpieces  of 
statuary  for  which  there  was  then  a  decided  taste, 


342  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

and  which  arouse  admiration  by  the  grace  of  their 
outlines,  straight  without  stiffness,  and  by  the  vigor 
of  designs  which  do  not  exclude  all  thought  of  life. 
Never  did  the  profile  of  a  swallow,  skimming  by  a 
window  at  dusk,  present  more  graceful  curves.  Ga- 
brielle's  face  was  thin  without  being  flat;  over  her 
neck  and  her  forehead  ran  a  multitude  of  bluish 
threads,  shaded  like  the  agate,  and  bringing  out 
the  delicacy  of  a  complexion  so  transparent  that 
one  might  have  fancied  he  could  see  the  blood 
flowing  in  the  veins.  This  excessive  pallor  was 
faintly  tinged  with  pink  on  the  cheeks.  Her  fair 
hair,  of  the  same  shade  throughout,  was  partly  con- 
cealed beneath  a  little  blue  velvet,  pearl-embroidered 
cap,  flowed  like  two  rippling  golden  streams  over 
her  temples,  and  played  in  curly  ringlets  on  her  shoul- 
ders, which  it  did  not  cover.  The  warm,  sunny  color 
of  that  silky  hair  enlivened  the  dazzling  whiteness  of 
the  neck,  and  made  even  purer  by  its  reflection  the 
pure  outlines  of  the  face.  The  eyes,  which  were 
long  and,  as  it  were,  compressed  between  heavy 
lids,  were  in  harmony  with  the  delicacy  of  the  head 
and  body;  their  pearl-gray  shone  without  vivacity, 
and  in  them  innocence  held  passion  in  check.  The 
line  of  the  nose  would  have  seemed  as  cold  as  a 
steel  blade,  but  for  the  soft,  pink  nostrils,  whose 
quivering  seemed  out  of  harmony  with  the  purity 
of  a  reflective  brow,  often  astonished,  sometimes 
laughing,  and  always  marked  by  an  august  serenity. 
Lastly,  an  alert  little  ear  attracted  the  eye,  peeping 
out  from  under  the  cap,  between  two  locks  of  hair, 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  343 

and  displaying  a  lobe  of  a  brilliant  ruby  which  stood 
out  in  striking  contrast  to  the  milky  whiteness  of  the 
neck.  Hers  was  neither  the  Norman  type  of  beauty, 
in  which  flesh  abounds,  nor  the  Southern  type,  in 
which  passion  magnifies  substance,  nor  the  common 
French  type,  as  ephemeral  as  its  expressions,  nor 
the  cold  and  melancholy  beauty  of  the  North;  it  was 
the  profound  and  seraphic  beauty  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  at  once  supple  and  rigid,  stern  and  tender. 

"Where  could  one  find  a  prettier  duchess?"  said 
Beauvouloir  to  himself,  watching  Gabrielle  with  de- 
light as  she  leaned  forward  slightly  and  stretched 
out  her  neck  to  follow  the  flight  of  a  bird  out-of-doors; 
she  could  be  compared  to  naught  save  a  gazelle  that 
had  stopped  to  listen  to  the  murmur  of  the  water  to 
which  she  was  going  to  quench  her  thirst. 

"Come  and  sit  here,"  said  Beauvouloir,  patting 
his  knee  and  making  a  sign  to  Gabrielle  which  prom- 
ised a  confidential  communication. 

Gabrielle  understood  and  went  to  him.  She  seated 
herself  on  her  father's  knee  as  lightly  as  the  gazelle, 
and  put  her  arm  about  his  neck,  rumpling  his  collar 
by  so  doing. 

"  What  were  you  thinking  about  when  you  picked 
these  flowers?  You  never  arranged  them  so  daintily 
before." 

"  Many  things,"  she  replied.  "As  I  admired  the 
flowers,  which  seem  to  have  been  made  for  us,  I  was 
wondering  for  whom  we  were  made,  what  sort  of 
beings  are  looking  at  us.  You  are  my  father,  so  I 
can  tell  you  what  takes  place  in  my  mind;  you  are 


344  THE    ACCURSED    CHILD 

clever,  you  will  explain  everything.  I  feel  within 
me  something  like  a  force  struggling  to  exert  itself, 
to  contend  with  something.  When  the  sky  is  gray, 
I  am  half-content,  I  am  melancholy  but  calm.  When 
it  is  fine,  when  the  flowers  smell  sweet  and  I  sit 
yonder  on  my  bench,  under  the  honeysuckles  and 
jasmine,  it  is  as  if  waves  arose  within  me  and  beat 
against  my  immobility.  Ideas  come  into  my  mind 
which  jostle  me,  so  to  speak,  then  fly  away  like  the 
birds  which  fly  against  our  windows  at  night;  I  can- 
not detain  them.  When  I  have  made  a  bouquet  in 
which  the  colors  are  blended  as  in  a  piece  of  tapes- 
try, in  which  the  red  melts  into  the  white,  and  the 
brown  and  the  green  intermingle,  in  which  every 
color  abounds;  when  the  air  plays  among  them, 
when  the  flowers  jostle  one  another,  when  there  is 
a  blending  of  odors  and  of  petals,  I  am  happy,  in  a 
measure,  because  I  recognize  what  takes  place  in 
myself.  When  the  organ  plays  in  church  and  the 
clergy  respond,  when  there  are  two  distinct  chants 
speaking  to  each  other,  the  human  voices  and  the 
instrument,  then  I  am  content,  the  harmony  finds 
an  echo  in  my  breast,  I  pray  with  a  pleasure  which 
quickens  my  blood." 

As  Beauvouloir  listened  to  his  daughter,  he  scru- 
tinized her  with  a  sagacious  eye:  his  glance  would 
have  seemed  unmeaning  by  virtue  of  the  very  power 
of  his  flashing  thoughts,  just  as  the  water  of  a  cas- 
cade seems  motionless.  He  raised  the  veil  of  flesh 
which  concealed  from  him  the  secret  mechanism 
whereby  the  mind  reacts  upon  the  body,  he  recurred 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  345 

to  the  diverse  symptoms  which  in  his  long  expe- 
rience he  had  noticed  in  the  multitude  of  people 
entrusted  to  his  care,  and  compared  them  to  the 
symptoms  exhibited  by  that  frail  body,  whose  bones 
alarmed  him  by  their  exiguity,  whose  milk-white 
flesh  terrified  him  by  its  lack  of  firmness;  and  he 
tried  to  apply  the  conclusions  of  his  experience  and 
skill  to  the  future  of  that  angelic  child ;  but  his  brain 
whirled  when  he  found  himself,  as  it  were,  on  the 
brink  of  a  precipice;  Gabrielle's  too  vibrant  voice, 
her  too  slender  frame,  made  him  anxious,  and  he 
questioned  himself  after  questioning  her. 

"You  are  always  ill  here!"  he  cried  at  last,  act- 
ing upon  the  final  conclusion  to  which  his  meditation 
had  led  him. 

She  bent  her  head  slightly. 

"  God  be  merciful !"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  sigh. 
"  I  will  take  you  to  the  Chateau  d'Herouville;  there 
you  can  take  sea-baths,  which  will  strengthen  you." 

"Do  you  really  mean  it,  father?  Aren't  you 
making  sport  of  your  Gabrielle?  I  have  longed  to 
see  the  chateau,  the  men-at-arms,  the  captains  and 
monseigneur!" 

"  I  mean  it,  my  child.  Your  nurse  and  Jean  will 
attend  you." 

"Will  it  be  soon?" 

"  To-morrow,"  said  the  old  man,  rushing  into  the 
garden  to  conceal  his  agitation  from  his  mother  and 
his  daughter. 

"God  is  my  witness,"  he  exclaimed,  "that  I  am 
impelled  by  no  ambitious  thought.  To  save  my 


346  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

daughter,  to  make  poor  Etienne  happy,  those  are 
my  only  motives!" 

His  reason  for  searching  his  conscience  thus  was 
that  he  felt,  in  the  innermost  depths  of  his  being,  an 
indescribable  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that,  if  his 
scheme  were  successful,  Gabrielle  would  some  day 
be  Duchesse  d'Herouville.  There  is  always  some- 
thing of  the  man  in  the  father.  He  walked  about  a 
long  while,  returned  to  the  house  to  sup,  and  amused 
himself  throughout  the  evening  gazing  at  his  daughter 
amid  the  subdued,  charmingly  poetic  surroundings 
to  which  he  had  accustomed  her. 

When,  before  retiring,  the  grandmother,  the  nurse, 
Beauvouloir,  and  Gabrielle  knelt  to  pray  together,  he 
said  to  them : 

"  Let  us  pray  to  God  to  bless  my  undertaking  !" 

The  eyes  of  the  grandmother,  who  was  aware  of 
her  son's  plan,  were  wet  with  such  tears  as  she  had 
left  to  shed.  The  inquisitive  Gabrielle's  face  was 
flushed  with  joy.  The  father  trembled,  he  was  so 
afraid  of  a  catastrophe. 

"After  all,"  said  the  grandmother,  "don't  alarm 
yourself,  Antoine.  The  duke  will  not  kill  his  grand- 
daughter!" 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  but  he  might  force  her  to 
marry  some  swaggering  baron  who  would  treat  her 
brutally." 

The  next  day,  Gabrielle,  mounted  on  an  ass,  and 
attended  by  her  nurse  on  foot,  her  father  on  his 
mule,  and  the  servant  leading  two  horses  laden  with 
luggage,  set  out  for  the  Chateau  d'Herouville,  where 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  347 

the  caravan  arrived  at  nightfall.  In  order  to  keep  the 
journey  secret,  Beauvouloir  had  started  early  in 
the  morning  and  made  long  detours,  and  he  had 
taken  a  supply  of  provisions  to  eat  on  the  road,  so 
that  they  need  not  show  themselves  at  any  inn. 
Under  cover  of  the  darkness,  and  unnoticed  by  the 
servants  of  the  chateau,  he  went  to  the  cabin  which 
the  accursed  child  had  occupied  so  long,  and  where 
Bertrand,  the  only  person  he  had  taken  into  his  con- 
fidence, was  awaiting  him.  The  old  squire  assisted 
the  physician,  the  nurse,  and  the  footman  to  un- 
load the  horses,  carry  the  packages  into  the  house, 
and  install  Beauvouloir's  daughter  in  Etienne's  former 
abode.  When  Bertrand  saw  Gabrielle,  he  was  thun- 
derstruck. 

"  It  seems  as  if  I  were  looking  at  madame!"  he 
cried.  "  She  is  thin  and  slender  like  her;  she  has 
her  pale  cheeks  and  her  fair  hair;  the  old  duke  will 
love  her." 

"  God  grant  it!"  said  Beauvouloir.  "  But  will  he 
recognize  his  blood  through  mine?" 

"He  can  hardly  deny  her,"  said  Bertrand.  "I 
often  went  to  wait  for  him  at  the  Fair  Roman's  door 
on  Rue  Culture-Sainte-Catherine.  The  Cardinal  de 
Lorraine  resigned  her  to  monseigneur,  perforce,  for 
very  shame  at  having  been  ill-used  when  he  was 
leaving  her  house.  Monseigneur,  who,  at  that  time, 
was  not  far  from  twenty  years  old,  must  remem- 
ber that  ambuscade;  he  was  already  very  bold, 
for — I  can  venture  to  say  it  to-day — he  led  the 
ambuscaders!" 


348  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

"  He  has  forgotten  all  about  that,"  said  Beauvou- 
loir;  "  he  knows  that  my  wife  is  dead,  but  he  hardly 
knows  that  I  have  a  daughter!" 

"  Two  old  campaigners  like  us  will  bring  the  ship 
safe  into  port,"  said  Bertrand.  "After  all,  if  the 
duke  does  lose  his  temper  and  vent  his  spleen  on 
our  carcasses,  they  have  had  their  day." 

Before  leaving  the  chateau,  the  Due  d'Herouville 
had  forbidden,  under  the  severest  penalties,  one  and 
all  of  his  retainers  to  go  to  that  portion  of  the  shore 
where  Etienne  had  passed  his  life,  unless  the  Due  de 
Nivron  should  bid  someone  attend  him  thither.  This 
order,  suggested  by  Beauvouloir,  who  had  urged  the 
necessity  of  leaving  Etienne  at  liberty  to  continue 
his  former  habits,  assured  Gabrielle  and  the  nurse 
the  inviolability  of  the  little  domain,  which  the 
physician  ordered  them  never  to  leave  without  his 
permission. 


During  these  two  days,  Etienne  had  remained  in 
the  seignorial  chamber,  where  he  was  detained  by  the 
fascination  of  painful  memories.  That  bed  had  been 
his  mother's;  a  few  steps  away  she  had  gone  through 
the  terrible  scenes  of  her  confinement,  when  Beau- 
vouloir  had  saved  two  lives;  she  had  confided  her 
thoughts  to  that  furniture,  she  had  used  it,  her  eyes 
had  often  wandered  over  that  wainscoting;  how 
many  times  had  she  come  to  yonder  window  to 
summon,  by  a  signal  or  a  cry,  her  poor  disowned 
child,  now  the  sovereign  master  of  the  chateau! 
Alone  in  that  chamber,  to  which  he  had  come  by 
stealth  on  his  last  visit,  brought  thither  by  Beau- 
vouloir  to  give  his  dying  mother  one  last  kiss,  he 
fancied  that  she  had  returned  to  life,  he  talked  to  her 
and  listened  to  her;  he  drank  deep  of  that  inexhaust- 
ible spring  from  which  issue  so  many  hymns  like 
the  Super  flumina  Babylonis. 

On  the  day  following  his  return,  Beauvouloir 
went  to  his  master,  and  reproved  him  gently  for 
remaining  in  his  room,  reminding  him  that  he  must 
not  replace  his  life  in  the  open  air  by  the  life  of  a 
prisoner. 

"  This  room  is  very  large,"  Etienne  replied,  "  my 
mother's  spirit  is  here." 

However,  by  means  of  the  gentle  influence  of 
affection,  the  physician  induced  Etienne  to  promise 
that  he  would  walk  every  day,  either  on  the  shore  or 
(349) 


350  THE  ACCURSED    CHILD 

in  the  surrounding  country,  which  was  unfamiliar  to 
him.  But  Etienne,  still  absorbed  by  his  reminis- 
cences, remained  at  his  window  the  next  day  until 
evening,  gazing  intently  at  the  sea;  it  presented 
such  a  variety  of  aspects,  that  it  seemed  to  him  he 
had  never  seen  it  so  lovely.  He  interspersed  his 
contemplations  with  passages  from  Petrarch,  one  of 
his  favorite  authors,  the  one  whose  poesy  was  most 
congenial  to  his  heart  by  reason  of  the  constancy 
and  smooth  current  of  his  love.  Etienne  had  not  in 
him  the  material  for  more  passions  than  one;  he 
could  love  in  but  one  way  and  but  once.  Although 
that  love  would  be  intense,  like  every  sentiment  that 
stands  alone,  it  would  be  calm  in  its  expression,  as 
sweet  and  pure  as  the  sonnets  of  the  Italian  poet. 
At  sunset,  the  child  of  solitude  began  to  sing  in  that 
marvellous  voice,  which  had  entered,  like  a  ray  of 
hope,  ears  most  insensible  to  music,  his  father's. 
He  gave  expression  to  his  melancholy  thoughts  by 
variations  upon  a  single  air,  which  he  repeated 
several  times,  after  the  manner  of  the  nightingale. 
This  air,  attributed  to  the  late  King  Henri  IV.,  was 
not  Gabrielle,  but  one  far  superior  in  structure,  in 
harmony,  and  expression,  which  those  interested 
in  the  olden  time  will  recognize  by  the  words,  also 
written  by  the  king.  The  air  was  doubtless  sug- 
gested by  the  refrains  which  had  lulled  him  to  sleep 
in  childhood  among  the  mountains  of  Beam: 

"  Come,  dawn, 
I  implore  thee, 
Blithe  am  I  when  I  see  thee ; 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  351 

The  maid 

Who  is  dear  to  me, 
Is  rosy-cheeked  like  thee ; 

With  dew-drops 

Glistening 
The  rose  is  less  fair  to  see ; 

The  ermine 

Less  glossy  is, 
The  lily  less  white  than  thee." 

After  he  had  thus  artlessly  interpreted  the  thoughts 
of  his  heart  by  his  song,  Etienne  gazed  anew  at  the 
sea,  saying  to  himself  : 

"  There  is  my  betrothed  and  my  only  love!" 
Then  he  sang  this  other  measure  of  the  ballad  : 

"  She  is  fair 
Beyond  compare !" 

and  repeated  it,  giving  expression  to  the  suppliant 
poesy  overabundant  in  a  timid  young  man,  who  dares 
much  when  he  is  alone.  There  were  dreams  in  that 
undulating  song,  which  was  constantly  interrupted, 
then  began  anew,  and  finally  died  away  in  one  last 
strain,  the  notes  growing  fainter  and  fainter  like  the 
vibrations  of  a  bell.  At  that  moment,  a  voice  which 
he  was  tempted  to  attribute  to  some  siren  emerging 
from  the  sea,  a  woman's  voice,  repeated  the  air  he 
had  just  sung,  but  with  all  the  hesitation  to  be  ex- 
pected from  a  person  to  whom  the  existence  of  music 
was  revealed  for  the  first  time;  he  recognized  the 
faltering  accents  of  a  heart  just  waking  to  a  realiza- 
tion of  the  poesy  of  melody.  Etienne  alone,  to 


352  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

whom  persistent  study  of  his  own  voice  had  taught 
the  language  of  musical  tones,  in  which  the  soul  finds 
as  many  resources  as  in  spoken  words,  for  the  ex- 
pression of  its  thoughts,  could  divine  all  that  those 
attempts  signified  in  the  way  of  timid  surprise.  With 
what  devout  and  subtle  admiration  had  he  been  lis- 
tened to!  The  calmness  of  the  atmosphere  enabled 
him  to  hear  everything,  and  he  trembled  at  the  rus- 
tling of  the  floating  folds  of  a  dress;  he,  whom  the 
excitement  caused  by  fear  always  drove  to  the  very 
brink  of  the  grave,  was  amazed  to  feel  the  sensation 
as  of  a  soothing  balm  formerly  caused  by  his  mother's 
coming. 

"Come,  Gabrielle,  my  child,"  said  Beauvouloir, 
"  I  have  forbidden  you  to  remain  on  the  shore  after 
sunset.  Go  into  the  house,  my  daughter." 

"Gabrielle!"  said  Etienne  to  himself,  "what  a 
pretty  name!" 

Beauvouloir  soon  reappeared  and  roused  his  master 
from  one  of  those  fits  of  meditation  which  resembled 
dreams.  It  was  dark,  the  moon  was  just  rising. 

"  Monseigneur,"  said  the  physician,  "you  have 
not  yet  been  out  to-day;  it  is  not  wise." 

"  But  can  I  go  on  the  shore  after  sunset?"  queried 
Etienne. 

The  hidden  meaning  of  this  query,  which  betrayed 
the  gentle  craft  of  a  first  desire,  made  the  old  man 
smile. 

"  You  have  a  daughter,  Beauvouloir?" 

"  Yes,  monseigneur,  the  child  of  my  old  age,  my 
beloved  child.  Monseigneur  le  due,  your  illustrious 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  353 

father,  enjoined  upon  me  so  forcibly  the  necessity 
of  watching  over  your  precious  life,  that,  being  un- 
able to  continue  my  visits  to  Forcalier,  where  she 
was,  I  have  taken  her  away  from  there,  to  my  great 
regret,  and,  in  order  to  shield  her  from  all  eyes,  I  have 
put  her  in  the  house  which  monseigneur  formerly 
occupied.  She  is  so  delicate,  that  I  fear  the  effect  of 
everything  upon  her,  even  of  a  too  intense  emotion; 
and  so  I  have  had  no  instruction  given  her,  for  she 
would  have  killed  herself." 

"  She  knows  nothing,  then?"  inquired  Etienne,  in 
amazement. 

"  She  has  all  the  talents  of  a  good  housekeeper; 
but  she  has  lived  as  a  plant  lives.  Ignorance,  mon- 
seigneur, is  as  blessed  a  thing  as  knowledge;  knowl- 
edge and  ignorance  are  two  methods  of  existence  for 
human  beings;  both  alike  preserve  the  mind  as  in  a 
winding-sheet;  knowledge  has  given  you  life;  igno- 
rance will  save  my  daughter.  Pearls  carefully  hidden 
escape  the  diver,  and  live  on  in  happiness.  I  can 
compare  my  Gabrielle  to  a  pearl,  for  her  complexion 
has  its  transparence,  her  soul  its  soft  lustre,  and 
hitherto  my  estate  of  Forcalier  has  served  as  her 
shell." 

"Come  with  me,"  said  Etienne,  wrapping  him- 
self in  a  cloak,  "  I  am  going  to  the  shore;  it  is  a 
lovely  night." 

Beauvouloir  and  his  master  walked  along  in  silence 
until  a  light  shining  out  between  the  shutters  of  the 
fisherman's  cabin  cast  a  shimmering  golden  beam  on 
the  sea. 
23 


354  THE  ACCURSED    CHILD 

"  I  cannot  express  the  sensation  produced  in  my 
mind  by  the  sight  of  light  shining  on  the  sea!"  said 
the  timid  heir  to  the  physician,  "  I  have  so  often 
gazed  at  the  window  of  yonder  room  until  its  light 
went  out!"  he  added,  pointing  to  his  mother's 
chamber. 

"Delicate  as  Gabrielle  is,"  rejoined  Beauvouloir, 
gayly,  "she  can  come  out  and  walk  with  us;  it  is  a 
warm  night,  and  there  is  no  dampness  in  the  air;  I 
will  go  and  call  her.  But  be  sensible,  monseigneur." 

Etienne  was  too  shy  to  propose  accompanying 
Beauvouloir  to  the  fisherman's  cabin;  moreover,  he 
was  in  the  state  of  torpor  produced  by  the  rush  of 
ideas  and  sensations  to  which  the  dawn  of  passion 
gives  birth.  More  at  ease  when  he  was  left  alone, 
he  cried,  as  he  looked  upon  the  moonlit  sea: 

"  The  ocean  has  passed  into  my  soul !" 

The  aspect  of  the  charming  animate  statuette 
which  came  toward  him,  enveloped  in  the  moon's 
silvery  light,  redoubled  the  palpitations  of  Etienne's 
heart,  but  caused  him  no  pain. 

"This  is  monseigneur,  my  child,"  said  Beauvou- 
loir. 

At  that  moment,  poor  Etienne  longed  for  his 
father's  colossal  stature,  he  would  have  liked  to 
appear  a  strong  man  and  not  a  puny  creature.  All 
the  forms  of  vanity  known  to  man  and  to  love  en- 
tered his  heart  at  one  time  like  so  many  arrows, 
and  he  maintained  a  stupefied  silence,  measuring 
for  the  first  time  the  extent  of  his  imperfections. 
Embarrassed  at  the  outset  by  the  girl's  salutation, 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  355 

he  returned  it  awkwardly  and  kept  beside  Beau- 
vouloir,  with  whom  he  talked  as  they  walked  along 
the  shore;  but  Gabrielle's  timid  and  respectful  man- 
ner gave  him  courage,  and  he  ventured  at  last  to 
speak  to  her.  The  incident  of  the  song  was  mere 
chance;  the  physician  had  preferred  to  lay  no  plans, 
he  thought  that,  between  two  beings  whose  hearts 
solitude  had  preserved  unsullied,  love  would  spring 
to  life  in  all  its  simplicity.  Thus  Gabrielle's  repeti- 
tion of  the  air  was  a  subject  of  conversation  ready 
to  their  hands. 

During  that  walk,  Etienne  was  conscious  of  the 
lightness  of  body  which  all  men  feel  at  the  moment 
when  the  first  love  transports  the  active  principle  of 
their  life  into  another  creature.  He  offered  to  teach 
Gabrielle  to  sing.  The  poor  fellow  was  so  overjoyed 
to  exhibit  himself  to  the  young  woman  as  possessed 
of  superior  talent  in  some  direction,  that  he  trembled 
with  pleasure  when  she  accepted.  At  that  moment, 
the  light  shone  full  upon  Gabrielle  and  enabled 
Etienne  to  detect  the  vague  resemblance  she  bore 
to  the  late  duchess.  Beauvouloir's  daughter,  like 
Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin,  was  slender  and  of  delicate 
build;  in  her,  as  in  the  duchess,  pain  and  melancholy 
had  produced  a  mysterious  charm.  She  had  the 
nobility  of  bearing  peculiar  to  those  hearts  which 
the  manners  of  the  world  have  not  changed,  and  in 
whom  everything  is  attractive  because  everything  is 
natural.  But  in  Gabrielle  there  were  also  traces  of 
the  blood  of  the  Fair  Roman,  which  had  been  trans- 
mitted to  the  third  generation  and  which  gave  to  that 


3$6  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

child  the  heart  of  a  passionate  courtesan  in  a  chaste 
soul;  thence  proceeded  an  exaltation  which  brought 
a  flush  to  her  cheeks,  which  purified  her  brow,  which 
caused  her  to  exhale  a  sort  of  radiance,  and  imparted 
the  vivacity  of  a  flame  to  her  movements.  Beau- 
vouloir  trembled  when  he  observed  this  phenomenon, 
which  one  might  call  to-day  the  phosphorescence  of 
thought,  and  which  the  physician  regarded  as  an 
omen  of  death.  Etienne  surprised  the  girl  putting 
her  head  forward  like  a  frightened  bird  peeping  out 
of  its  nest.  Hiding  behind  her  father,  she  wished  to 
examine  Etienne  at  her  leisure,  and  her  glance  ex- 
pressed as  much  curiosity  as  pleasure,  as  much 
goodwill  as  innocent  temerity.  In  her  eyes,  Etienne 
was  not  weak,  but  delicate;  he  seemed  to  her  so  like 
herself,  that  nothing  about  him  held  her  in  awe;  his 
sickly  complexion,  his  beautiful  hands,  his  wan  smile, 
his  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and  falling  in  long 
curls  over  his  lace  collar,  that  noble  brow  furrowed 
by  premature  wrinkles,  the  contrast  of  splendor  and 
misery,  of  power  and  power lessness,  pleased  her; 
for  did  they  not  flatter  the  longing  to  play  the  part 
of  a  mother  which  love  contains  in  germ?  did  they 
not  stimulate  the  determination  which  besets  every 
woman  to  find  marks  of  distinction  in  the  man  she 
wishes  to  love?  In  both  alike,  new  ideas  and  sensa- 
tions arose  with  a  force  and  abundance  which  en- 
larged their  minds;  they  maintained  the  silence  of 
profound  surprise,  for  the  expression  of  the  feelings 
becomes  less  demonstrative  as  they  increase  in  inten- 
sity. All  durable  love  begins  with  dreamy  musings. 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  357 

It  was  most  fitting,  perhaps,  for  these  two  to  meet 
for  the  first  time  by  the  soft  light  of  the  moon,  so  that 
they  might  not  be  suddenly  blinded  by  the  splendors 
of  love;  it  was  fitting  that  they  should  meet  by  the 
seashore,  which  offered  an  image  of  the  immensity  of 
their  emotions.  They  parted,  filled  with  thoughts 
of  each  other,  mutually  fearing  that  they  had  failed 
to  please. 

From  his  window  Etienne  watched  the  light  in  the 
house  where  Gabrielle  was.  During  that  hour  of 
mingled  hope  and  dread,  the  young  poet  found  new 
meaning  in  Petrarch's  sonnets.  He  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Laura,  a  graceful,  enchanting  figure,  as 
pure  and  radiant  as  a  sunbeam,  as  intelligent  as  the 
angels,  as  weak  as  woman.  His  twenty  years  of 
study  had  one  connecting-link,  he  understood  the 
mysterious  alliance  between  all  forms  of  beauty; 
he  realized  how  large  a  part  woman  played  in  the 
poems  he  adored;  in  truth,  he  had  been  in  love  so 
long  without  knowing  it,  that  his  whole  past  melted 
into  the  emotions  of  that  lovely  night.  Gabrielle's 
resemblance  to  his  mother  seemed  the  result  of  a 
divine  command.  He  did  not  betray  his  sorrow  by 
loving,  for  this  love  was  a  continuation  of  his 
mother's  love.  His  mind  dwelt  upon  the  child 
sleeping  in  that  cabin  with  the  same  feelings  which 
his  mother  experienced  when  he  was  sleeping  there. 
This  other  point  of  resemblance  served  to  bind  the 
present  more  closely  to  the  past.  On  the  clouds  of 
his  memory,  Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin's  grief-stricken 
face  appeared  before  him;  he  saw  her  once  more 


358  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

with  her  faint  smile,  he  heard  her  sweet  voice,  she 
bowed  her  head  and  wept. 

The  light  in  the  cabin  went  out.  Etienne  sang 
Henri  IV. 's  pretty  ballad  with  renewed  expression. 
Gabrielle's  hesitating  voice  answered  in  the  dis- 
tance. The  maiden  also  was  taking  her  first  jour- 
ney into  the  enchanted  regions  of  amorous  ecstasy. 
This  response  filled  Etienne's  heart  with  joy;  the 
blood  coursed  through  his  veins  with  a  force  he  had 
never  felt,  love  made  him  strong.  Feeble  natures 
alone  can  understand  the  ecstasy  of  this  new  crea- 
tion in  the  midst  of  life.  The  poor,  the  sick,  the 
maltreated,  know  ineffable  joy;  a  trifle  is  the  whole 
universe  to  them.  Etienne  was  in  many  ways  akin 
to  the  people  of  the  Sorrowful  City.  His  recent  rise 
from  obscurity  to  grandeur  caused  him  only  terror, 
but  love  poured  into  his  heart  the  balsam  that  gives 
strength  :  he  loved  love. 

The  next  morning  Etienne  rose  betimes,  to  hasten 
to  his  former  abode,  where  Gabrielle,  aflame  with 
curiosity,  spurred  on  by  an  impatience  which  she 
did  not  acknowledge  to  herself,  had  curled  her  hair 
and  donned  her  most  charming  costume  early  in  the 
morning.  Both  were  overflowing  with  longing  to 
meet  again,  and  they  mutually  dreaded  the  results 
of  the  interview.  As  for  him,  consider  that  he  had 
selected  his  finest  lace,  his  most  beautifully  trimmed 
cloak,  his  violet  velvet  knee-breeches;  in  a  word, 
he  had  donned  that  splendid  costume  which  recalls 
to  all  memories  the  pale  face  of  Louis  XIII.,  a  face 
sorrowful  in  the  midst  of  grandeur,  as  Etienne's  had 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  359 

been  hitherto.  Nor  was  this  costume  the  only  point 
of  resemblance  between  the  sovereign  and  the  sub- 
ject. Etienne,  like  Louis  XIII.,  was  distinguished 
for  a  multitude  of  refined  sentiments:  chastity,  mel- 
ancholy, vague  but  genuine  suffering,  chivalrous 
timidity,  the  fear  of  being  unable  to  express  his 
feeling  in  all  its  purity,  the  fear  of  attaining  too 
rapidly  the  happiness  which  great  minds  prefer  to 
postpone,  the  sense  of  the  burden  of  power,  the 
inclination  to  obedience  which  is  found  in  natures 
indifferent  to  selfish  interests,  but  overflowing  with 
love  for  what  a  noble  religious  genius  has  named 
the  astral. 

Although  entirely  without  experience  in  the  world, 
it  had  occurred  to  Gabrielle  that  the  bone-setter's 
daughter,  the  humble  chatelaine  of  Forcalier,  was 
much  too  far  removed  from  Monseigneur  Etienne, 
Due  de  Nivron,  the  heir  of  the  D'Herouvilles,  for 
them  to  be  considered  equals;  she  had  not  gone  so 
far  as  to  divine  the  ennobling  power  of  love.  The 
innocent  creature  had  seen  no  reason  for  aspiring 
to  a  place  which  any  other  girl  would  have  longed  to 
attain;  she  had  seen  naught  but  obstacles  in  the 
way.  Loving  already,  without  knowing  what  it  was 
to  love,  she  found  that  she  was  far  away  from  the 
source  of  her  pleasure,  and  wished  to  move  nearer 
to  it,  as  a  child  longs  for  the  golden  grapes  which 
are  out  of  his  reach.  To  a  girl  in  whom  the  sight 
of  a  flower  caused  emotion,  and  who  caught  a  glimpse 
of  love  in  the  music  of  the  liturgy,  how  strong  and 
sweet  must  the  emotions  of  the  night  before  have 


360  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

been,  at  sight  of  the  weakness  of  her  lord,  which 
encouraged  her  own  weakness.  But  Etienne  had 
grown  during  the  night,  she  had  made  of  him  a 
hope,  she  had  magnified  him  into  a  mighty  power; 
she  had  raised  him  so  high  that  she  despaired  of 
reaching  his  side. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  come  sometimes  to  see  you 
in  your  domain?"  said  the  duke,  lowering  his  eyes. 

When  she  saw  Etienne  so  humble  and  fearful, — 
for  he,  in  his  turn,  had  deified  Beauvouloir's  daugh- 
ter,— Gabrielle  was  embarrassed  by  the  sceptre  he 
placed  in  her  hands;  but  she  was  deeply  touched 
and  flattered  by  his  submissive  demeanor.  Women 
alone  know  the  extent  of  the  charm  exerted  by  re- 
spectful treatment  on  their  master's  part.  Never- 
theless, she  feared  that  she  was  mistaken,  and,  being 
as  inquisitive  as  the  first  woman,  she  was  determined 
to  find  out. 

"Didn't  you  promise  yesterday  to  teach  me 
music?"  she  replied,  hoping  that  the  music  would 
furnish  an  excuse  for  her  to  be  with  him. 

If  the  poor  child  had  only  been  acquainted  with 
Etienne's  life,  she  would  not  have  thought  of  ex- 
pressing a  doubt.  In  his  view,  the  spoken  word  was 
an  echo  of  the  mind,  and  that  question  caused  him 
the  deepest  pain.  He  arrived  with  an  overflowing 
heart,  dreading  the  possibility  of  finding  a  dark  spot 
in  his  light,  and  he  was  met  by  a  doubt!  His  joy 
vanished,  he  plunged  anew  into  his  desert  and  failed 
to  find  there  the  flowers  with  which  he  had  embel- 
lished it. 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  361 

Enlightened  by  that  foreknowledge  of  sorrows 
which  distinguishes  the  angel  whose  mission  it  is  to 
assuage  them,  and  who,  doubtless,  is  the  charity  of 
Heaven,  Gabrielle  divined  the  pain  she  had  caused. 
She  was  so  profoundly  impressed  by  her  error  that 
she  longed  for  the  power  of  God  that  she  might  be 
able  to  lay  bare  her  heart  to  Etienne;  for  she  had 
known  the  cruel  emotion  caused  by  a  reproach,  by 
a  stern  glance;  artlessly  she  showed  him  the  clouds 
that  had  gathered  in  her  heart,  like  golden  swad- 
dling-clothes, at  the  birth  of  her  love.  A  tear  in  Ga- 
brielle's  eye  changed  Etienne's  pain  to  pleasure,  and 
thereupon  he  must  needs  accuse  himself  of  tyranny. 
It  was  most  fortunate  that  they  became  acquainted 
thus  at  the  outset  with  the  whole  gamut  of  their 
hearts,  for  they  avoided  innumerable  misunderstand- 
ings which  would  have  tortured  them.  Suddenly, 
Etienne,  impatient  to  intrench  himself  behind  some 
occupation,  led  Gabrielle  to  a  table  in  front  of  the 
little  window  where  he  had  suffered  so  keenly,  and 
where  he  was  thenceforth  to  gaze  in  admiration  at  a 
lovelier  flower  than  all  those  he  had  studied.  Then 
he  opened  a  book  over  which  they  bent  their  heads, 
so  that  their  hair  mingled. 

These  two  beings,  so  strong  in  heart,  so  feeble  in 
body,  but  embellished  by  the  charms  that  suffering 
imparts,  formed  a  touching  picture.  Gabrielle  knew 
nothing  of  coquetry;  a  glance  was  granted  as  soon 
as  it  was  solicited,  and  the  soft  beams  that  flashed 
from  their  eyes  ceased  to  blend  from  modesty  alone; 
it  was  a  joy  to  her  to  tell  Etienne  what  pleasure  it 


362  THE   ACCURSED   CHILD 

gave  her  to  listen  to  his  voice;  she  forgot  the  mean- 
ing of  the  words  when  he  explained  to  her  the  posi- 
tion of  the  notes,  or  their  value;  she  listened  to  him, 
neglecting  the  melody  for  the  instrument,  the  idea 
for  the  form;  an  ingenious  form  of  flattery,  the 
first  which  true  love  encounters.  Gabrielle  thought 
Etienne  beautiful ;  she  would  have  liked  to  smooth 
the  velvet  of  his  cloak,  to  touch  the  lace  of  his 
collar.  As  for  Etienne,  he  became  transformed  be- 
neath the  creative  glance  of  those  penetrating  eyes; 
they  infused  into  his  veins  a  life-giving  fluid  which 
sparkled  in  his  eyes,  gleamed  on  his  brow,  recreated 
him  inwardly;  and  he  did  not  suffer  by  reason  of 
this  new  activity  of  his  faculties;  on  the  contrary, 
they  strengthened  one  another.  Happiness  was,  as 
it  were,  the  mother's  milk  of  his  new  life. 

As  nothing  could  divest  their  minds  from  each 
other,  they  remained  together,  not  that  day  alone, 
but  all  the  days  that  followed,  for  they  belonged  to 
each  other  from  the  first  day,  passing  the  sceptre 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  playing  together  as  the 
child  plays  with  life.  Sitting  in  perfect  contentment 
on  that  golden  sand,  each  told  his  story  of  the  past: 
in  the  man's  case,  sorrowful,  but  full  of  dreams;  in 
the  woman's,  dreamy,  but  full  of  painful  pleasures. 

"I  never  had  a  mother,"  said  Gabrielle,  "but 
my  father  has  been  as  kind  as  God." 

"I  never  had  a  father,"  rejoined  the  accursed 
child,  "  but  my  mother  was  a  whole  heaven  to  me." 

Etienne  told  her  of  his  youth,  of  his  love  for  his 
mother,  his  taste  for  flowers.  Gabrielle  cried  out 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  363 

at  that  word.  When  he  questioned  her,  she  blushed, 
tried  to  avoid  replying ;  then,  when  a  shadow  passed 
over  that  brow  as  if  death  had  brushed  it  with  its 
wing,  over  that  visible  heart  on  which  Etienne's 
lightest  emotions  could  be  plainly  read,  she  replied : 

"  Why,  I  love  flowers,  too." 

Was  it  not  such  a  suggestion  as  virgins  love  to 
make,  the  thought  that  they  had  been  connected 
even  in  the  past  by  similarity  of  tastes!  Love 
always  seeks  to  make  itself  appear  old,  it  is  the 
coquetry  of  children. 

Etienne  brought  flowers  to  her  the  next  day, 
having  ordered  that  the  choicest  varieties  should 
be  gathered  for  her,  as  his  mother  had  been  wont 
to  do  for  him.  Who  can  say  to  how  great  a  depth 
the  roots  of  a  sentiment  extend  in  the  breast  of  a 
recluse,  when  he  thus  continues  the  traditions  of 
maternity,  lavishing  on  a  woman  the  caressing  at- 
tentions by  which  his  mother  had  embellished  his 
life!  Of  how  great  importance  to  him  were  these 
trifles  wherein  the  only  two  affections  he  had  ever 
known  were  blended !  Flowers  and  music  became  the 
language  of  their  love.  Gabrielle  answered  Etienne's 
messages  with  nosegays,  those  nosegays  of  which  a 
single  one  had  told  the  old  bone-setter  that  his  igno- 
rant daughter  already  knew  too  much.  The  material 
ignorance  of  the  two  lovers  formed  a  sort  of  dark 
background  against  which  the  slightest  details  of  their 
wholly  spiritual  intimacy  stood  out  with  exquisite 
grace,  like  the  exquisitely  pure  red  profiles  of  Etrus- 
can figures.  Their  most  trivial  words  were  followed 


364  THE   ACCURSED   CHILD 

by  oceans  of  ideas,  for  they  were  the  fruit  of  their 
meditations.  Incapable  of  conceiving  a  daring  stroke, 
every  beginning  seemed  to  them  an  end.  Although 
always  free,  they  were  imprisoned  in  an  innocence 
which  would  have  driven  them  to  despair,  if  either 
of  them  had  been  able  to  give  a  meaning  to  his 
vague  desires.  They  were  poets  and  poetry  at  the 
same  time.  Music,  the  most  sensuous  of  the  arts  to 
amorous  natures,  was  the  interpreter  of  their  ideas, 
and  they  took  pleasure  in  repeating  the  same  phrase, 
pouring  forth  their  passion  in  those  beautiful  waves 
of  sound  wherein  their  hearts  beat  in  unison  without 
hindrance. 

Many  love-affairs  proceed  by  opposition:  there  are 
quarrels  and  reconciliations,  the  common  conflict  be- 
tween mind  and  matter.  But  the  first  flapping  of 
the  wings  of  true  love  removes  it  instantly  far  from 
such  conflicts,  it  no  longer  distinguishes  two  natures 
where  the  essence  is  the  same;  like  genius  in  its 
noblest  expression,  it  can  hold  its  own  in  the  bright- 
est light,  it  endures  the  glare,  thrives  upon  it,  and 
has  no  need  of  darkness  to  set  it  off.  Gabrielle,  be- 
cause she  was  a  woman,  Etienne,  because  he  had 
suffered  much  and  meditated  much,  speedily  tra- 
versed the  space  which  vulgar  passions  appropriate, 
and  passed  beyond.  Like  all  feeble  natures,  they 
were  more  rapidly  penetrated  by  faith,  by  that  celes- 
tial purple  which  increases  the  strength  by  strength- 
ening the  soul.  To  them  the  sun  was  always  in  the 
zenith.  Ere  long,  they  acquired  that  divine  faith 
in  each  other  which  suffers  neither  jealousy  nor 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  365 

unhappiness;  they  had  self -sacrifice  always  ready, 
their  mutual  admiration  was  never-failing.  Under 
these  conditions,  love  was  unattended  by  pain. 
Equal  in  their  feebleness,  strong  by  their  union,  if 
the  nobleman  possessed  superior  learning  or  conven- 
tional worldly  grandeur,  the  physician's  daughter 
effaced  them  by  her  beauty,  her  nobility  of  feeling, 
and  by  the  refinement  which  she  imparted  to  their 
pleasures. 

Thus  these  two  white  doves  suddenly  find  them- 
selves flying  side  by  side  beneath  a  spotless  sky: 
Etienne  loves,  he  is  loved,  the  present  is  serene,  the 
future  is  without  clouds,  his  will  is  law,  the  chateau 
is  his,  the  sea  belongs  to  both;  no  anxiety  disturbs 
the  harmonious  strains  of  their  joint  song;  virginity 
of  the  senses  and  of  the  mind  magnifies  the  world  in 
their  eyes,  their  thoughts  come  without  effort;  de- 
sire, whose  gratification  pollutes  so  many  things, 
desire,  that  blemish  of  earthly  love,  has  not  assailed 
them  yet.  Like  two  Zephyrs,  seated  on  the  same 
willow  branch,  they  are  happy  to  gaze  at  their  re- 
flections in  the  mirror-like  surface  of  a  limpid  stream; 
immensity  is  enough  for  them,  they  admire  the  ocean, 
without  wishing  to  glide  over  the  waves  in  the  white- 
sailed  bark  with  flower-bedecked  rigging,  in  which 
Hope  stands  at  the  helm. 

There  is  a  moment  in  love  when  it  is  sufficient 
unto  itself,  when  it  is  happy  to  exist.  During  that 
springtime  when  everything  is  in  the  budding  stage, 
the  lover  sometimes  hides  from  his  loved  one,  the 
better  to  see  her  and  to  enjoy  her  charms;  but 


366  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

Etienne  and  Gabrielle  plunged  together  into  the 
delights  of  that  childlike  hour:  sometimes  they  were 
two  sisters  by  virtue  of  the  fascinating  grace  of  their 
mutual  confidences;  sometimes  two  brothers  by  virtue 
of  the  audacity  of  their  investigations.  Ordinarily, 
love  demands  a  slave  and  a  god,  but  they  realized 
Plato's  delightful  dream,  they  formed  a  single  deified 
being.  They  protected  each  other  in  turn.  Caresses 
came  slowly,  one  by  one,  but  as  chaste  as  the  frolic- 
some, merry,  graceful  sporting  of  young  animals  try- 
ing their  strength.  The  sentiment  which  impelled 
them  to  pour  forth  their  hearts  in  impassioned  sing- 
ing, led  them  toward  love  by  the  innumerable  trans- 
formations of  the  same  happiness.  Their  joys  caused 
them  neither  delirium  nor  sleeplessness.  It  was  the 
childhood  of  pleasure,  always  growing,  but  knowing 
naught  of  the  lovely  red  flowers  that  will  crown  its 
stalk.  They  gave  themselves  to  each  other  with  no 
thought  of  danger,  in  a  word  or  in  a  glance,  in  a  kiss, 
or  in  the  long  pressure  of  their  intertwined  fingers. 
They  praised  each  other's  charms  ingenuously,  and 
expended  in  these  secret  idylls  treasures  of  language, 
divining  the  sweetest  exaggerations,  the  most  ex- 
travagant terms  of  endearment  invented  by  the 
ancient  muse  of  the  Tibulluses  and  their  like,  and 
repeated  by  the  Italian  poets.  On  their  lips  and  in 
their  hearts,  there  was  the  constant  plashing  of  the 
foam-fringed  waves  on  the  fine  sand  of  the  beach, 
each  similar  yet  each  different.  Joyous,  everlasting 
fidelity! 

If  we  must  count  the  days,  this  period  lasted  five 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  367 

months;  if  we  must  count  the  innumerable  sensa- 
tions, the  thoughts,  the  dreams,  the  glances,  the 
flowers  that  bloomed,  the  hopes  realized,  the  joys 
without  end,  a  head-dress  removed  and  carefully 
torn  to  pieces,  then  reconstructed  and  adorned  with 
flowers,  conversations  interrupted,  resumed,  aban- 
doned, wild  laughter,  feet  drenched  in  the  sea,  child- 
ish quests  of  shells  hidden  among  the  rocks,  kisses, 
surprises,  embraces — why,  call  it  a  whole  lifetime, 
and  death  will  justify  the  calculation.  There  are 
lives  that  are  always  gloomy,  lived  under  gray 
skies;  but  imagine  a  lovely  day  when  the  sun  illu- 
mines a  pure  blue  atmosphere — such  was  the  May- 
time  of  their  affection,  during  which  Etienne  hung 
all  his  past  sorrows  on  Gabrielle's  heart,  while  she 
had  riveted  her  future  joys  to  the  heart  of  her  lord. 
Etienne  had  had  but  one  sorrow  in  his  life,  his 
mother's  death;  he  was  destined  to  have  but  one 
love,  Gabrielle. 


The  vulgar  rivalry  of  an  ambitious  mortal  hastened 
the  course  of  this  honey-sweet  life.  The  Due  d'He- 
rouville,  an  old  warrior  accustomed  to  ruses,  a  rough 
but  adroit  politician,  heard  the  voice  of  distrust  in  his 
breast  after  he  had  given  the  promise  which  his  phy- 
sician required.  Baron  d'Artagnon,  the  lieutenant 
of  his  free  company,  enjoyed  his  full  confidence  in 
political  matters.  The  baron  was  a  man  after  the 
duke's  own  heart,  a  sort  of  butcher,  of  powerful 
build,  tall,  with  virile  features,  sharp  of  speech  and 
cold-blooded,  brave  in  the  service  of  the  throne, 
rough  in  his  manners,  endowed  with  a  will  of  iron  in 
the  execution  of  orders,  yet  supple  to  the  hand;  of 
noble  birth,  moreover,  and  ambitious,  with  the  bluff 
honesty  of  the  soldier  and  the  craft  of  the  politician. 
He  had  the  hand  that  his  face  indicated,  the  broad, 
hairy  hand  of  the  condottiere.  His  manners  were 
brusque,  his  words  few  and  to  the  point. 

Now,  the  governor  had  instructed  his  lieutenant 
to  keep  close  watch  upon  the  physician's  conduct 
toward  the  new  heir-presumptive.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  care  with  which  Gabrielle's  presence  at  the 
chateau  was  concealed,  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  de- 
ceive the  lieutenant:  he  heard  the  singing  of  two 
voices,  he  saw  lights  in  the  evening  in  the  house  on 
the  shore;  he  suspected  that  all  Etienne's  activity, 
the  flowers  he  required,  and  the  manifold  orders  he 
24  (369) 


3/0  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

gave,  concerned  a  woman;  then  he  came  upon  Ga- 
brielle's  nurse  on  the  road  to  Forcalier,  going  thither 
for  clothing  or  linen;  and  again  bringing  back  an 
embroidery  frame  and  other  articles  pertaining  to  a 
young  woman.  The  trooper  determined  to  see,  and 
did  see,  the  physician's  daughter,  and  fell  in  love 
with  her.  Beauvouloir  was  rich.  The  duke  would 
be  furiously  angry  at  the  goodman's  audacity.  Upon 
these  considerations  Baron  d'Artagnon  based  the 
edifice  of  his  fortune.  The  duke,  when  he  learned 
that  his  son  was  in  love,  would  prefer  to  give  him  a 
wife  belonging  to  some  great  family,  with  handsome 
estates  in  prospect;  and  to  turn  Etienne  from  his 
first  love,  nothing  more  would  be  necessary  than  to 
force  Gabrielle  to  be  false  to  him  by  marrying  her 
to  a  noble  whose  estates  were  pledged  to  some  Jew. 
The  baron  had  no  estates.  These  plans  would  have 
been  most  excellent  with  characters  of  the  type  we 
ordinarily  meet  in  the  world;  but  they  were  certain 
to  fail  with  Etienne  and  Gabrielle.  Chance,  how- 
ever, had  served  Baron  d'Artagnon  well. 

During  his  sojourn  in  Paris,  the  duke  had  avenged 
Maximilien  by  killing  his  son's  adversary,  and  he 
had  planned  for  Etienne  an  alliance,  of  which  he  had 
hitherto  entertained  no  hope,  with  the  heiress  of  one 
branch  of  the  family  of  Grandlieu,  a  tall,  beautiful, 
disdainful  person,  who  was  pleased,  however,  by 
the  hope  of  bearing  some  day  the  title  of  Duchesse 
d'Herouville.  The  duke  hoped  to  marry  his  son  to 
Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu.  When  he  learned  that 
Etienne  was  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  a  wretched 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  371 

physician,  he  determined  to  realize  his  hope.  To  his 
mind,  the  matter  did  not  admit  of  argument.  You 
know  the  brutal  ideas  upon  the  subject  of  love  en- 
tertained by  that  man  of  brutal  methods!  he  had 
allowed  Etienne's  mother  to  die  before  his  eyes, 
without  the  slightest  comprehension  of  her  sighs. 

Never,  perhaps,  in  his  life,  had  he  been  more  furi- 
ously angry  than  he  was  when  the  baron's  last  de- 
spatch informed  him  with  what  rapidity  the  schemes 
of  Beauvouloir,  to  whom  the  baron  attributed  the 
most  impudent  ambition,  were  progressing.  The 
duke  ordered  his  carriages  and  travelled  from  Paris 
to  Rouen,  escorting  to  his  chateau  the  Comtesse  de 
Grandlieu,  her  sister  the  Marquise  de  Noirmou- 
tier,  and  Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu,  on  the  pretext 
of  showing  them  the  beauties  of  Normandie.  A  few 
days  before  his  arrival,  the  all-engrossing  subject 
of  conversation,  from  Herouville  to  Rouen,  was  the 
young  Due  de  Nivron's  passion  for  Gabrielle  Beau- 
vouloir, the  famous  bone-setter's  daughter,  albeit  no 
one  knew  how  the  rumor  had  spread.  The  good 
people  of  Rouen  mentioned  it  to  the  old  duke  in 
the  midst  of  the  banquet  which  was  offered  him, 
for  the  guests  were  enchanted  to  stick  pins  into  the 
despot  of  Normandie.  This  incident  inflamed  the  gov- 
ernor's wrath  to  the  last  degree.  He  ordered  that  a 
letter  be  sent  to  the  baron  enjoining  secrecy  as  to  his 
intended  visit  to  Herouville  and  commanding  him  to 
guard  against  what  he  considered  to  be  a  misfortune. 

Meanwhile,  Etienne  and  Gabrielle  had  unwound 
all  the  thread  from  their  spool  in  the  vast  labyrinth 


372  THE  ACCURSED    CHILD 

of  love,  and  both  alike,  having  little  desire  to  go 
forth,  determined  to  live  therein.  One  day  they 
were  standing  by  the  window  where  so  many  things 
had  happened.  The  hours,  filled  at  first  by  sweet 
converse,  now  frequently  flew  by  in  meditative 
silence.  They  were  beginning  to  feel  within  them- 
selves the  ill-defined  longing  for  complete  possession: 
they  had  reached  the  stage  of  confiding  to  each  other 
their  vague  ideas,  reflections  of  a  lovely  image  in 
two  pure  hearts.  During  those  still  untroubled 
hours,  Etienne's  eyes  sometimes  filled  with  tears 
while  he  held  Gabrielle's  hand  glued  to  his  lips. 
Like  his  mother,  but  at  this  moment  happier  in  his 
love  than  she  had  ever  been,  the  accursed  child 
gazed  upon  the  sea,  then  tinged  with  gold  where  it 
broke  on  the  shore,  but  black  at  the  horizon,  and 
cut  here  and  there  by  the  silver  streaks  which  in- 
dicate a  storm.  Gabrielle,  adapting  herself  to  her 
friend's  attitude,  looked  out  in  silence  at  the  spec- 
tacle. A  single  glance,  one  of  those  by  which  hearts 
lean  upon  one  another,  was  enough  for  them  to  com- 
municate their  thoughts.  The  last  step  was  not  a 
sacrifice  for  Gabrielle  nor  a  demand  for  Etienne. 
Each  of  them  loved  with  the  love  which  is  so  divinely 
like  unto  itself  at  every  instant  of  its  eternity,  that 
it  knows  nothing  of  sacrifice,  that  it  fears  neither 
disappointments  nor  delays.  But  Etienne  and  Ga- 
brielle were  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  pleasures  of 
which  their  hearts  felt  the  spur.  When  the  fading 
twilight  had  drawn  a  veil  over  the  sea,  when  the 
silence  was  broken  only  by  the  sobbing  of  the  waves 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  373 

as  they  advanced  and  receded  on  the  beach,  Etienne 
rose  and  Gabrielle  did  the  same,  with  a  vague  dread, 
for  he  had  released  her  hand.  He  put  one  arm  about 
her,  pressing  her  close  to  his  side  in  a  tender  em- 
brace; and  she,  understanding  his  wish,  let  him  feel 
the  weight  of  her  body  enough  to  assure  him  that 
she  was  his,  but  not  enough  to  tire  him.  The  lover 
laid  his  too  heavy  head  upon  his  sweetheart's  shoul- 
der, his  lips  rested  on  her  heaving  bosom,  his  hair  fell 
in  profusion  over  Gabrielle's  fair  back  and  caressed 
her  neck.  The  maiden,  innocently  amorous,  bent  her 
head  in  order  to  give  Etienne  more  room,  and  put 
her  arm  about  his  neck  as  a  support.  They  re- 
mained thus  without  speaking  until  it  was  quite 
dark.  The  crickets  were  singing  in  their  holes,  and 
the  lovers  listened  to  the  music  as  if  to  occupy  all 
their  senses  through  a  single  one.  Surely  they  could 
be  compared  only  to  an  angel  who  stands  with  his 
feet  resting  on  the  earth,  awaiting  the  hour  to  re- 
ascend  to  heaven.  They  had  fulfilled  the  lovely 
dream  of  the  mystic  genius  of  Plato,  and  of  all  those 
who  seek  to  give  mankind  a  meaning;  they  made 
but  a  single  soul,  they  were  in  very  truth  the  mys- 
terious pearl  that  is  destined  to  adorn  the  brow  of 
some  unknown  star,  the  hope  of  all  of  us ! 

"  Will  you  take  me  home?"  said  Gabrielle,  emerg- 
ing first  from  that  delicious  calm. 

"Why  do  we  part?"  Etienne  replied. 

"  We  ought  to  be  together  always,"  she  said. 

"Stay." 

"Yes." 


374  THE  ACCURSED    CHILD 

Old  Beauvouloir's  heavy  step  was  heard  in  the 
adjoining  room.  He  found  the  two  children  standing 
apart,  and  he  had  seen  them  in  each  other's  arms  at 
the  window.  Even  the  purest  love  loves  mystery. 

"  This  is  not  right,  my  child,"  he  said  to  Gabrielle. 
"  To  stay  here  so  late,  without  a  light." 

"  Why?"  she  rejoined  ;  "  you  know  that  we  love 
each  other,  and  he  is  master  of  the  chateau." 

"My  children,"  said  Beauvouloir,  "if  you  love 
each  other,  your  happiness  demands  that  you  should 
marry  in  order  to  pass  your  lives  together;  but 
your  marriage  depends  upon  monseigneur  le  due's 
pleasure — " 

"  My  father  promised  to  accede  to  all  my  wishes," 
cried  Etienne,  eagerly,  interrupting  Beauvouloir. 

"  Then  write  to  him,  monseigneur,"  the  physician 
replied,  "  tell  him  your  wish,  and  give  me  your  letter 
that  I  may  put  it  with  one  I  have  just  written.  Ber- 
trand  will  set  out  at  once  to  deliver  the  letters  to 
monseigneur  himself.  I  have  just  learned  that  he  is 
at  Rouen;  he  has  with  him  the  heiress  of  the  Grand- 
lieu  family,  and  I  do  not  believe  that  it  is  on  his 
own  account —  If  I  listened  to  my  presentiments,  I 
should  take  Gabrielle  away  this  very  night." 

"  Separate  us!"  cried  Etienne,  almost  fainting  with 
grief,  and  leaning  on  his  sweetheart. 

"Father!" 

"Gabrielle,"  said  the  physician,  handing  her  a 
smelling-bottle  which  he  took  from  the  table,  and 
which  she  held  to  Etienne's  nose, — "Gabrielle,  my 
conscience  tells  me  that  nature  intended  you  for  each 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  375 

other.  But  I  wished  to  prepare  monseigneur  for  a 
marriage  which  runs  athwart  all  his  ideas,  and  the 
evil  one  has  warned  him  against  us.  He  is  Mon- 
seigneur le  Due  de  Nivron,"  said  Gabrielle's  father, 
"  and  you  are  a  poor  doctor's  daughter." 

"  My  father  has  sworn  to  cross  me  in  nothing," 
said  Etienne,  calmly. 

"  He  has  also  pledged  his  word  to  consent  to 
whatever  I  might  do  in  the  way  of  finding  a  wife 
for  you,"  said  the  physician,  "  but  suppose  he  does 
not  keep  his  promises?" 

Etienne  sank  into  a  chair  as  if  overwhelmed. 

"  The  sea  was  dark  to-night,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment's  silence. 

"  If  you  knew  how  to  ride,  monseigneur,"  said  the 
physician,  "  I  would  bid  you  fly  with  Gabrielle  this 
very  night:  I  know  you  both,  and  I  know  that  any 
other  marriage  would  be  disastrous  to  you.  To  be 
sure,  the  duke  would  have  me  cast  into  a  dungeon, 
and  would  leave  me  there  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  when 
he  should  learn  of  your  flight;  but  I  would  gladly  die 
if  my  death  would  assure  your  happiness.  But,  alas! 
to  mount  a  horse  would  be  to  risk  your  life  and  Gabri- 
elle's. We  must  brave  the  governor's  wrath  here." 

"  Here,"  repeated  poor  Etienne. 

"  We  have  been  betrayed  by  someone  at  the  cha- 
teau, who  has  aroused  your  father's  anger,"  rejoined 
Beauvouloir. 

"Let  us  go  and  throw  ourselves   into  the  sea' 
together,"  Etienne  whispered  in  Gabrielle's  ear,  as 
she  knelt  by  his  side. 


376  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

She  bowed  her  head  with  a  smile.  Beauvouloir 
divined  everything. 

"Monseigneur,"  he  continued,  "your  learning, 
no  less  than  your  wit,  has  made  you  eloquent,  love 
will  surely  make  you  irresistible:  declare  your  love  to 
monseigneur  le  due;  you  will  thereby  confirm  my 
letter,  which  is  convincing  enough.  All  is  not  lost, 
I  believe.  I  love  my  daughter  as  dearly  as  you  love 
her,  and  I  propose  to  defend  her." 

Etienne  shook  his  head. 

"The  sea  was  very  dark  to-night,"  he  said. 

"  It  was  like  a  streak  of  gold  at  our  feet,"  added 
Gabrielle,  in  a  melodious  voice. 

Etienne  called  for  lights,  and  seated  himself  at 
his  table  to  write  to  his  father.  On  one  side  of  his 
chair  was  Gabrielle,  kneeling,  silent,  looking  at  what 
he  wrote  without  reading  it,  for  she  could  read  every- 
thing on  Etienne's  brow.  On  the  other  side  stood 
old  Beauvouloir,  whose  jovial  face  was  profoundly 
sad,  sad  as  that  room  in  which  Etienne's  mother 
died.  An  inward  voice  said  to  the  physician:  "  His 
mother's  fate  will  be  his!" 

The  letter  finished,  Etienne  handed  it  to  the  old 
man,  who  hastened  away  to  give  it  to  Bertrand. 
The  squire's  horse  was  all  saddled,  the  rider  in 
readiness:  he  started  and  met  the  duke  within  four 
leagues  of  Herouville. 

"  Go  with  me  as  far  as  the  door  of  the  tower," 
said  Gabrielle  to  her  lover  when  they  were  alone. 

They  passed  through  the  cardinal's  library  and 
descended  the  stairs  in  the  tower,  to  the  door  of 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  377 

which  Etienne  had  given  Gabrielle  the  key.  Be- 
numbed by  the  dread  of  misery  to  come,  the  poor 
child  left  in  the  tower  the  torch  he  had  used  to  light 
his  beloved,  and  walked  with  her  toward  her  house. 
A  few  steps  from  the  little  garden  which  formed  a 
sort  of  courtyard  of  flowers  to  that  humble  dwelling, 
the  lovers  stopped.  Emboldened  by  the  vague  fear 
which  disturbed  them,  they  exchanged,  in  the  silence 
and  darkness,  that  first  kiss  in  which  the  material 
senses  and  the  soul  unite  to  cause  a  pleasure  teem- 
ing with  revelations.  Etienne  suddenly  understood 
what  love  meant  in  its  twofold  expression,  and  Ga- 
brielle fled,  lest  she  should  be  led  on  by  desire,  but 
to  what? — She  had  no  idea. 

As  the  Due  de  Nivron  was  ascending  the  stairs 
after  locking  the  door  of  the  tower,  a  shriek  of  terror 
uttered  by  Gabrielle  rang  in  his  ears  with  the  vivid- 
ness of  a  flash  of  lightning  which  sears  the  eyes. 
He  hurried  through  the  great  rooms  to  the  main 
stairway,  rushed  down  to  the  shore  and  to  Gabrielle's 
house,  where  he  saw  a  light. 

As  she  entered  the  little  garden,  Gabrielle  saw, 
by  the  light  of  the  torch  beside  her  nurse's  spinning- 
wheel,  a  man  seated  in  that  goodwoman's  chair  in 
her  stead.  At  the  sound  of  footsteps,  this  man  had 
risen  and  walked  to  meet  her,  and  had  frightened 
her.  Baron  d'Artagnon's  aspect  fully  justified  the 
fear  he  aroused  in  Gabrielle. 

"You  are  the  daughter  of  Beauvouloir,  monsei- 
gneur's  physician,"  said  D'Artagnon,  when  Gabri- 
elle had  recovered  from  her  fright. 


378  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

"Yes,  monseigneur." 

"  I  have  some  things  of  the  very  greatest  impor- 
tance to  disclose  to  you.  I  am  Baron  d'Artagnon, 
lieutenant  of  Monseigneur  le  Due  d'Herouville's  free 
company." 

In  view  of  the  circumstances  in  which  the  lovers 
were  placed,  Gabrielle  was  struck  by  these  words 
and  by  the  tone  in  which  the  soldier  uttered  them. 

"  Your  nurse  is  here,  she  may  hear  us;  come  with 
me,"  said  the  baron. 

He  left  the  house,  followed  by  Gabrielle.  They 
went  to  the  beach  behind  the  house. 

"  Have  no  fear,"  said  the  baron. 

This  remark  would  have  given  the  alarm  to  a 
person  who  was  not  utterly  ignorant;  but  a  simple- 
hearted  girl,  who  loves,  never  thinks  herself  in 
danger. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  baron,  striving  to  im- 
part a  honeyed  tone  to  his  voice,  "you  and  your 
father  are  on  the  brink  of  an  abyss  into  which  you 
will  surely  fall  to-morrow;  I  had  not  the  heart,  when 
I  saw  this,  to  refrain  from  warning  you.  Monsei- 
gneur is  furiously  angry  with  your  father  and  with 
you,  he  suspects  you  of  having  seduced  his  son,  and 
he  prefers  his  son's  death  to  his  marriage  to  you:  so 
much  for  his  son.  As  for  your  father,  this  is  what 
monseigneur  proposes  to  do.  Nine  years  ago  your 
father  was  implicated  in  a  criminal  affair.  It  was 
a  matter  of  kidnapping  a  child  of  noble  birth  at  the 
time  of  the  mother's  confinement,  for  which  your 
father  was  employed.  Monseigneur,  knowing  that 


THE   ACCURSED   CHILD  379 

he  was  innocent,  protected  him  against  the  prosecu- 
tion instituted  by  the  parliament;  but  he  intends  to 
seize  him  now  and  turn  him  over  to  the  law,  with  a 
demand  that  he  be  prosecuted.  Your  father  will  be 
broken  on  the  wheel;  but,  in  consideration  of  the 
services  he  has  rendered  his  master,  monseigneur 
will  perhaps  succeed  in  obtaining  a  commutation  of 
the  penalty  to  hanging.  I  do  not  know  what  he  has 
decided  with  regard  to  you;  but  I  know  that  you 
have  it  in  your  power  to  save  Monseigneur  de  Nivron 
from  his  father's  anger,  to  save  Beauvouloir  from 
the  horrible  punishment  which  awaits  him,  and  to 
save  yourself." 

"  What  must  I  do?"  said  Gabrielle. 

"  Go  and  throw  yourself  at  monseigneur's  feet, 
confess  that  his  son  loves  you  against  your  will,  and 
tell  him  that  you  do  not  love  him.  In  proof  of  this, 
you  must  offer  to  marry  the  man  whom  it  may 
please  him  to  designate  as  your  husband.  He  is 
generous,  and  will  give  you  a  handsome  dowry." 

"  I  can  do  everything  except  deny  my  love." 

"  But  if  it  is  necessary  to  do  it,  in  order  to  save 
your  father,  Monseigneur  de  Nivron,  and  yourself?" 

"  It  will  kill  Etienne,"  she  said,  "  and  me  as  well." 

"  Monseigneur  de  Nivron  will  be  very  sad  at  losing 
you,  but  he  will  live  for  the  honor  of  his  family; 
you  will  resign  yourself  to  be  the  wife  of  a  baron 
only,  instead  of  a  duchess,  and  your  father  will 
live,"  replied  the  man  of  action. 

At  this  moment,  Etienne  reached  the  house,  and, 
not  seeing  Gabrielle  there,  uttered  a  piercing  cry. 


380  THE   ACCURSED    CHILD 

"There  he  is!"  cried  the  girl,  "let  me  go  and 
reassure  him." 

"  I  will  come  to-morrow  morning  to  receive  your 
answer,"  said  the  baron. 

"  I  will  consult  my  father,"  was  her  reply. 

"  You  will  not  see  him  again!  1  have  just  received 
orders  to  arrest  him  and  send  him  to  Rouen,  under 
escort  and  in  chains,"  he  said,  leaving  Gabrielle 
petrified  with  terror. 

She  returned  to  the  house  and  found  Etienne  there, 
alarmed  by  the  silence  with  which  the  nurse  had 
answered  his  first  question: 

"Where  is  she?" 

"  Here  I  am!"  cried  the  girl;  her  voice  was  hoarse, 
her  color  had  disappeared,  and  her  step  was  heavy. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  he  asked;  "you 
shrieked." 

"  Yes,  I  ran  against — " 

"  No,  my  love,"  said  Etienne,  interrupting  her, 
"  I  heard  a  man's  footsteps." 

"  Etienne,  we  have  evidently  offended  God;  let 
us  kneel  and  pray.  Then  I  will  tell  you  every- 
thing." 

Etienne  and  Gabrielle  knelt  at  the  prie-Dieu, 
while  the  nurse  told  her  beads. 

"  O  God,"  said  the  girl,  in  an  outburst  of  exal- 
tation which  carried  her  beyond  earthly  boundaries, 
"  if  we  have  not  sinned  against  Thy  holy  command- 
ments, if  we  have  offended  neither  the  Church  nor 
the  king,  we  who  form  but  a  single  person,  in  whom 
love  glows  like  the  light  Thou  hast  given  to  the  pearl 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  381 

of  the  sea,  grant  that  we  be  not  parted  in  this  world 
or  in  the  other!" 

"Dear  mother,"  Etienne  added,  "who  art  in 
heaven,  implore  the  Blessed  Virgin  that  if  Gabrielle 
and  I  may  not  be  happy,  we  may  at  least  die  to- 
gether, without  suffering.  Call  us,  and  we  will 
come  to  thee!" 

Then,  after  they  had  repeated  their  evening 
prayers,  Gabrielle  described  her  interview  with 
Baron  d'Artagnon. 

"  Gabrielle,"  said  the  young  man,  taking  courage 
from  the  very  desperation  of  his  love,  "  I  shall  have 
strength  to  resist  my  father." 

He  kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  but  not  again  on 
the  lips;  then  he  returned  to  the  chateau,  deter- 
mined to  defy  the  awe-inspiring  man  who  weighed 
so  heavily  upon  his  life.  He  did  not  know  that 
Gabrielle's  house  would  be  surrounded  by  soldiers 
as  soon  as  he  had  left  it. 

The  next  day,  Etienne  was  overwhelmed  with 
grief  when,  on  going  to  see  Gabrielle,  he  found  her  a 
prisoner;  but  she  sent  her  nurse  to  say  to  him  that 
she  would  die  rather  than  be  false  to  him;  further- 
more, that  she  had  found  a  way  to  elude  the  vigi- 
lance of  her  guards,  and  that  she  would  take  refuge 
in  the  cardinal's  library,  where  no  one  could  sus- 
pect that  she  was;  but  she  did  not  know  when  she 
could  carry  out  her  plan.  Etienne,  therefore,  re- 
mained in  his  room,  where  the  forces  of  his  heart 
wore  themselves  away  in  painful  suspense. 

At  three  o'clock,  the  carriages  of  the  duke  and  his 


382  THE    ACCURSED    CHILD 

suite  entered  the  courtyard,  where  he  proposed  to 
sup  with  his  visitors.  And,  just  at  nightfall,  Madame 
la  Comtesse  de  Grandlieu,  leaning  on  her  daughter's 
arm,  Madame  de  Noirmoutier,  and  the  duke  ascended 
the  grand  staircase  amid  a  profound  silence,  for  their 
master's  stern  face  had  terrified  all  the  retainers. 
Although  Baron  d'Artagnon  had  learned  of  Gabri- 
elle's  escape,  he  had  asserted  that  she  was  under 
guard;  but  he  trembled  lest  he  should  have  en- 
dangered the  success  of  his  own  private  plan,  in 
case  the  duke  should  find  that  his  design  was  inter- 
fered with  by  her  flight.  Those  two  fear-inspiring 
faces  wore  a  savage  expression  ill-disguised  by  the 
affable  manner  which  the  laws  of  courtesy  obliged 
them  to  assume. 

The  duke  had  ordered  his  son  to  be  in  the  salon. 
When  the  party  entered,  d'Artagnon  knew  from 
Etienne's  downcast  face  that  Gabrielle's  escape  was 
still  unknown  to  him. 

"This  is  my  son,"  said  the  old  duke,  taking 
Etienne's  hand  and  presenting  him  to  the  ladies. 

Etienne  saluted  them  without  'speaking.  The 
countess  and  Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu  exchanged 
a  glance  which  did  not  escape  the  old  man. 

"  He  will  be  a  poor  mate  for  your  daughter,"  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice;  "  is  not  that  your  thought?" 

"  I  think  just  the  opposite,  my  dear  duke,"  the 
mother  replied,  with  a  smile. 

The  Marquise  de  Noirmoutier  laughed  significantly. 
That  laugh  pierced  Etienne's  heart;  he  had  already 
taken  fright  at  sight  of  the  tall  young  lady. 


THE   ACCURSED    CHILD  383 

"Well,  monsieur  le  due,"  said  his  father,  in  an 
undertone  and  with  a  playful  air,  "  have  I  not  found 
you  a  beautiful  mould  ?  What  do  you  say  to  this 
slip  of  a  girl,  my  cherub?" 

The  old  duke  had  not  a  doubt  of  his  son's  obedi- 
ence, for  to  him  Etienne  was  his  mother's  child, 
made  of  the  same  easily-worked  clay. 

"  Let  him  have  a  child,  and  die!"  thought  the  old 
man;  "  it  makes  little  difference  to  me  !" 

"  Father,"  said  the  young  man,  softly,  "  I  do  not 
understand  you." 

"Come  to  your  room,  I  have  a  word  to  say  to 
you,"  said  the  duke,  leading  the  way  to  the  state 
bedroom. 

Etienne  followed  his  father.  The  three  ladies, 
impelled  by  a  curiosity  which  Baron  d'Artagnon 
shared,  walked  across  the  great  salon,  and  stood  in 
a  group  at  the  door  of  the  state  bedroom,  which  the 
duke  had  left  ajar. 

"  Dear  Benjamin,"  said  the  old  man,  softening  his 
voice  at  the  beginning,  "  I  have  chosen  for  your  wife 
this  beautiful  and  stately  young  lady;  she  is  heir  to 
the  estates  of  a  younger  branch  of  the  Grandlieu 
family,  an  honorable  and  venerable  noble  family  of 
Bretagne.  So,  be  a  good  fellow,  and  recall  the  pret- 
tiest things  in  your  books,  so  that  you  can  say 
pretty  speeches  to  her  before  translating  them  by 
acts." 

"  Father,  is  it  not  a  gentleman's  first  duty  to  keep 
his  word?" 

"Yes." 


384  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

"Very  well,  when  I  forgave  you  for  the  death  of 
my  mother,  who  died  in  this  room  as  the  result 
of  her  marriage  to  you,  did  you  not  promise  never 
to  oppose  my  wishes  ?  /  myself  will  obey  you  as  the 
god  of  the  family !  you  said.  I  have  no  designs  upon 
you,  I  ask  only  to  be  allowed  to  follow  my  own 
wishes  in  a  matter  in  which  my  life  is  at  stake,  and 
which  concerns  me  alone:  my  marriage." 

"  I  understood,"  said  the  old  man,  conscious  that 
all  his  blood  was  mounting  to  his  cheeks,  "  that  you 
would  place  no  obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  perpetu- 
ation of  our  noble  family." 

"You  made  no  conditions,"  said  Etienne.  "I 
know  not  what  love  has  to  do  with  perpetuation 
of  a  family;  but  I  do  know  this — that  I  love  the 
daughter  of  your  old  friend  Beauvouloir,  and  the 
granddaughter  of  your  friend  the  Fair  Roman." 

"  But  she  is  dead  !"  replied  the  old  colossus,  with 
an  air,  at  once  sombre  and  mocking,  which  betrayed 
his  purpose  to  cause  her  to  disappear. 

There  was  a  moment  of  profound  silence.  The 
old  man  spied  the  three  ladies  and  d'Artagnon  at 
the  door.  At  that  supreme  crisis,  Etienne,  whose 
sense  of  hearing  was  so  extremely  delicate,  heard 
poor  Gabrielle  in  the  library,  where,  wishing  to 
let  her  lover  know  that  she  was  concealed  there, 
she  sang  these  words: 


"  The  ermine 

Less  glossy  is, 
The  lily  less  white  than  thee." 


THE  ACCURSED   CHILD  385 

The  accursed  child,  whom  his  father's  terrible 
words  had  plunged  into  the  abyss  of  death,  returned 
to  the  surface  of  life  on  the  wings  of  those  verses. 
Although  that  spasm  of  terror,  swiftly  as  it  had 
been  effaced,  had  broken  his  heart,  he  summoned 
all  his  strength,  raised  his  head,  looked  his  father  in 
the  face  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  returned  scorn 
for  scorn,  and  said,  with  the  emphasis  of  hatred: 

"A  gentleman  should  never  lie!" 

Then,  with  one  bound,  he  was  at  the  door  oppo- 
site that  of  the  salon. 

"Gabrielle!"  he  cried. 

The  lovely  creature  suddenly  appeared  in  the 
shadow,  like  a  lily  among  its  leaves,  and  trembled 
before  that  group  of  sneering  women,  who  were  now 
informed  of  Etienne's  love.  Like  the  clouds  which 
bring  the  thunder,  the  old  duke,  who  had  reached  a 
degree  of  frenzy  which  cannot  be  described,  stood 
out  against  the  gorgeous  background  formed  by  the 
rich  dresses  of  the  three  ladies  of  the  court.  Any 
other  man  would  have  hesitated  between  the  per- 
petuation of  his  race  and  a  mesalliance;  but  in  that 
indomitable  old  man  there  was  still  a  large  admixture 
of  the  ferocity  which  had  solved  all  human  difficul- 
ties; he  drew  his  sword  on  all  occasions  as  the  sole 
means  within  his  knowledge  of  dealing  with  the  Gor- 
dian  knots  of  life.  At  this  juncture,  when  the  over- 
turning of  his  plans  had  reached  its  climax,  nature 
was  sure  to  triumph.  Twice  caught  in  the  very  act 
of  lying  by  a  creature  whom  he  detested,  by  the 
child  whom  he  had  cursed  a  thousand  times,  and 
25 


386  THE  ACCURSED   CHILD 

whom  he  cursed  more  heartily  than  ever  at  the 
moment  when  his  despised  and,  in  his  eyes,  most 
despicable  weakness  triumphed  over  an  omnipo- 
tence hitherto  infallible,  there  was  nothing  left  in 
him  of  the  man  or  the  father:  the  tiger  came  forth 
from  the  lair  in  which  he  was  hiding.  The  old  man, 
rejuvenated  by  the  thirst  for  vengeance,  bestowed 
upon  the  most  ravishingly  beautiful  pair  of  angels 
who  ever  vouchsafed  to  rest  their  feet  on  earth  a 
glance  heavy  with  hatred,  a  murderous  glance. 

"Very  good;  die,  both  of  you! — You,  vile  abor- 
tion, the  living  proof  of  my  shame! — You,"  he  said 
to  Gabrielle,  "wretched  strumpet  with  the  viper's 
tongue,  who  have  poisoned  my  family!" 

These  words  discharged  into  the  hearts  of  the  two 
children  the  terror  with  which  they  were  laden.  As 
Etienne  saw  his  father's  great  hand,  armed  with  a 
sword,  raised  over  Gabrielle's  head,  he  died,  and 
Gabrielle  fell  dead  while  trying  to  retain  him. 

The  old  man,  frantic  with  rage,  closed  the  door, 
and  said  to  Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu: 

"  I  will  marry  you  myself !  " 

"And  you  are  lusty  enough  to  raise  a  fine  brood," 
said  the  countess,  in  the  ear  of  the  old  man,  who  had 
served  under  seven  kings  of  France. 

Paris,  1831-1836. 


LIST  OF  ETCHINGS 


VOLUME  XLIV 

PAGE 

DEATH  OF  ETIENNE  AND  GABRIELLE  ....    Fronts. 

IN  THE  CHAMPS-ELYSEES 88 

IN  THE  PALACE  MEMMI 128 

IL  BARBIERE 152 

THE  KING  TO  THE  DUKE 320 


44  C.  H.,  Gambara,  etc.,  N.  &  R.  387 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

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jn  thfe  last  date  stamped  below. 


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APR  1 0  2(101 


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216? 

G3E 

1899 


Uni 


